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THE  TWISTED  FOOT 


THE   TWISTED   FOOT 


BY 


HENRY  MILNER  RIDEOUT 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
G.  C.  WIDNEY 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(3tbc  UitcrsiDr  press  Cambridge 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,   IQIO,  BY  HENRY  MILNER  RIDEOUT 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


Published  April  zqio 


TO  MY  NEPHEW 
SAMUEL   RIDEOUT   WEBBER 

FOR    THE    SAKE    OF    MANY    DAYS    OUTDOORS,   WHEN 

WE    SHOT    AND    TRAMPED    THROUGH    THE   WOODS, 

FISHED   THE  FLOWAGE,  SWAM  IN  NASH's  LAKE, 

OR  CHOPPED  THE  CHRISTMAS  TREES  THAT 

SHOWERED   US   WITH   SNOW 

H.   M.   R. 


4 5 1360 


CONTENTS 

I.    THE   SILVER   LOCKET  1 
II.    THE    HUT   IN   THE    PALMS '.    DAWN            14 

III.  THE    HUT   IN   THE   PALMS*.   NIGHT  25 

IV.  AT   LARGE  37 

v.   MARY:  IN  THE  PLAINS  50 

vi.   MARY:  IN  THE  HILLS  64 

VII.    KUBOYONG  76 

VIII.    THE   SHADOWS  90 

IX.     DOWN   HILL  100 

X.    THE    LAKE    ISLE  113 

XI.    THE   WRITTEN   STONE  125 

XII.    WAITING  141 

XIII.  THE   DESSA  157 

XIV.  THE   GREEN   POOL  170 
XV.    THE    HIGHWAY  181 

XVI.     LAMP-COMEDY  194 

XVII.     BATU   BLAH  210 

XVIII.     AMOK  221 

XIX.    THE   PACKET  239 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

HE  PICKED  UP  THE  FALLEN  SPEAR  AND  HELD 

IT   READY     (Page  6) Frontispiece 

YOU   SEE,    I    DID  N'T  TAKE    EVERYTHING        .       22 

THE     WRITER    AT    THE     TABLE     HAD    CRIED 

ALOUD 34 

HIS  COOK  IS  ASESINO  TO  MY  STOM-ACHE    .      .      42 

THE  TIMID  AND  BOOKISH  ROSARIO,  WHO  WAS 

RUNNING   AFT 58 

A   SHRILL  CRY  OF  PRETERNATURAL  VOLUME      64 

TUAN    RAMA  LEFT   THIS   WITH    ME,    TO    GIVE 

YOU  .    246 


From  original  drawings  by  G.  C.  Widney,  reproduced  through  the 
courtesy  of  "  The  Saturday  Evening  Post." 


THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    SILVER   LOCKET 

THE  captain's  biscuits,  a  Huntley  and  Palmer 
tin,  were  slung  —  high  beyond  reach  of  white 
ants  or  more  nauseous  vermin  —  on  a  lanyard 
made  fast  to  the  awning  stanchion.  There  they 
swung  dimly,  beside  a  bunch  of  ripe  bananas,  in 
the  darkest  part  of  the  boat-deck.  If  Agapito,  the 
mestizo  steward,  had  stayed  awake  long  enough 
to  coil  up  loose  ends  .  .  .  but  a  tale  was  hanging 
by  that  slender  cord,  along  with  the  captain's  bis 
cuits. 

Into  this  tale,  David  Bowman  plunged  head 
first  over  the  side,  through  the  unguarded  gap 
astern  of  the  long-boat.  The  rotten  cord  snapped 
from  his  ankle,  and  he  fell  whirling,  in  a  shock  of 
surprise  and  blind  rage.  A  long  time,  it  seemed, 
he  fought  and  choked  in  the  cool  darkness  under 
the  ocean.  Then,  as  he  shouted  between  air  and 
water,  his  streaming  eyes,  blinded  and  stung  with 
salt,  cleared  to  show  him  the  golden  jet  of  phos 
phorus  squirting  from  his  mouth,  the  unbroken 
swell  of  the  tropic  sea  like  black  oil  moving  under 


£  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

th&  gray  mist  of  moonshine,  and  the  Santo  Nino's 
lights  already  far  ahead. 

"Wait!"  he  sputtered  peevishly;  then  shouted, 
"Ahoy,  Santo  Nino!  Help!  Man  overboard!" 

Midnight,  on  the  Sulu  Sea,  was  astonishingly 
wide  and  still.  The  swimmer  heard  only  a  muf 
fled,  mechanical  panting  which,  from  that  black 
bulk  ahead,  reached  him  fainter  and  thinner,  like 
the  low-trailing  stink  and  dropping  cinders  of 
Mitsui  coal.  No  other  sound;  no  other  stir,  he 
thought,  but  the  breath  of  the  departing  ship. 

He  choked  again,  coughed,  and  at  last,  catch 
ing  a  mouthful  of  air  without  water,  shouted.  His 
voice  rose  frail  and  angry,  an  atom  of  sound. 

"No  use,"  he  perceived,  in  a  flash  of  lonely 
terror.  The  Tagalog  crew  were  all  asleep,  of 
course;  and  of  course  his  friend,  the  captain, 
dozed  in  a  chair  by  the  wheelhouse,  and  wondered 
what  kept  him  aft  so  long,  when  the  two  good 
night  drinks  waited.  Now  they  would  wait  for 
ever.  His  drink  would  be  the  last  bitter  draught 
of  brine  and  darkness. 

He  cried  out  against  that  fate.  The  two  dull 
lanterns  faded  more  and  more  through  the  smoke, 
above  the  hoary  wake  of  phosphorus.  No  one 
heard. 

A  moment  ago,  when  his  foot  caught  in  the  slat 
ternly  coils  of  the  lanyard,  he  had  been  walking 
forward,  prosperous,  his  head  full  of  important 


THE   SILVER  LOCKET  3 

things  to  do,  up  north,  in  Manila.  Now  remained 
only  two  great  unrealities,  —  a  swimmer,  and  the 
moonlit  ocean.  The  act  of  staying  afloat  became 
so  heavy,  all  at  once,  that  he  would  have  flung  up 
both  arms  and  let  go,  had  not  a  fragment  from 
an  unknown  book  haunted  him,  ringing  like  a 
sunken  bell :  — 

"  the  bubbling  cry 
Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony." 

"That  means  —  me!"  He  lashed  out  in  dis 
may;  but  the  lights  grew  less,  the  black  shape 
lowered  and  shrank  upon  the  heaving,  liquid 
foundation  of  his  sight.  Only  the  unknown  line, 
a  dread  stimulus,  kept  him  at  work  above  water. 
"  Some  strong  swimmer,"  —  that  was  all  he  or  his 
final  contest  meant,  to  the  tropic  ocean  and  the 
tropic  moon. 

He  groaned.  Anguish  of  the  spirit,  it  might 
have  been ;  but  before  the  sound  went  wide  and 
was  lost,  he  knew  it  for  anguish  of  the  body. 
"Swimming  too  hard:  ease  up,"  commanded 
some  unconquerable  secret  part  of  him ;  and  obey 
ing,  his  arms  and  legs  no  longer  jerked  out 
violently,  but  began  to  move  with  the  strong, 
deliberate  ease  of  habit.  Presently,  by  the  same 
impulse,  he  found  his  fingers  tugging  stubbornly, 
under  water,  at  buttons  and  belt.  All  day,  by  a 
lucky  chance,  he  had  gone  about  the  decks  bare- 


4  THE   TWISTED  FOOT 

foot ;  and  now,  at  last,  he  managed  to  wriggle  and 
tear  loose  from  the  leaden  wrappings  of  jacket 
and  trousers.  He  swam  naked,  as  light  —  by 
contrast  —  as  a  floating  sea-gull. 

Behind  him,  for  the  time  of  a  few  strokes* 
the  swollen  folds  of  white  drill  glistened  in  the 
moonlight,  like  ghostly  spirals  of  a  water- 
snake. 

Before  him,  the  Santo  Nino  had  already  faded 
to  a  pair  of  twinkling  points,  often  smudged  out 
by  the  tiny  black  squall  of  smoke.  Beyond  these, 
on  his  right  hand,  stretched  a  continuous  gray  va 
por,  the  fusion  of  sky  and  sea  in  the  moonlight; 
but,  on  his  left  hand,  the  distant  contours  of 
island  mountains  floated  like  darker  vapors,  al 
most  equally  dissolved.  Land  —  shore :  they  were 
too  far  off,  and  swept  by  strong,  impassable  cur 
rents  ;  yet  toward  these  he  set  his  face,  and,  with 
out  plan  or  hope,  began  doggedly  to  swim. 

"As  long  as  I  can,  anyhow,"  he  grumbled. 

After  a  weary  time,  the  ship's  lights  were  gone, 
and  he  moved  alone,  interminably,  through  the 
wide  ocean.  Whenever  he  turned  on  his  back  to 
float  and  rest,  the  great  moon,  straight  overhead, 
surprised  him  by  her  pale  splendor.  After  a 
breathing-space  it  made  him  dizzy  to  watch  her, 
for  sky  and  sea  grew  topsy-turvy,  as  though  the 
ceiling  of  the  world  had  become  the  floor,  and  he 
himself  swung  aloft,  looking  deeply  down  at  the 


THE   SILVER  LOCKET  5 

inverted  orb.  He  rolled  over  quickly  and  struck 
out,  to  escape  the  vertigo  of  space. 

Then,  through  the  slow  drift  of  hours,  he  found 
the  moon  lowering  into  his  range  of  sight.  Her 
path  began  to  glimmer  on  the  glossy,  heaving  sur 
face  ahead.  The  long  mist  of  western  mountains 
gradually  took  on  edge,  and  blackness,  and  sub 
stance. 

"  I  can't  make  'em."  He  thought  vaguely,  and 
with  effort;  for  the  growing  chill,  and  the  dull 
pain  of  weariness  which  clogged  his  muscles,  now 
began  to  steal  through  his  brain. 

"How  long,  do  you  suppose?"  he  asked  him 
self,  aloud.  The  water  had  no  more  buoyancy. 
The  path  of  the  moon  faded.  Over  the  flat  void 
settled  a  pale  smoke,  pink  and  gray.  He  noted 
the  changes  with  profound  apathy,  wondering 
only  if  he  should  be  afloat  at  sunrise. 

All  at  once  he  spun  bolt  upright,  treading  water 
so  hard  as  to  lift  himself  out,  breast-high. 

"Anito!"    said    a   guttural   voice,  close    by. 


The  sound  ran  through  him  like  a  fiery  shock  ; 
for  the  voice  had  spoken  almost  in  his  ear,  out  of 
the  lonely  mist. 

A  long,  slim,  black  shape  bore  down  slowly 
from  the  right.  It  focused  as  the  body,  mast,  and 
outriggers  of  a  sailing  banca,  in  the  stern  of  which 
huddled  the  figures  of  two  men. 


6  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

"Ahoy!  H ombre!"  called  David,  suddenly 
limp  and  sick  at  the  vision  of  this  godsend.  Find 
ing  no  words  but  English,  he  waved  his  hand. 
Two  faces  peered  at  him  through  the  obscurity, 
—  gray  faces,  strangely  drawn  and  puckered. 
The  hard,  shrewd  eyes  met  his,  and  stared,  large 
and  wild,  in  the  milky  light  of  the  sea  dawn. 

"Here!"  he  cried,  choking,  and  beckoned 
feebly.  "Help!  Siguel" 

The  paler  of  the  two  men  laughed  softly.  Nei 
ther  stirred.  The  slender  boat  continued  to  drift 

by- 

Spent  as  he  was,  and  bitter  cold  to  the  mar 
row,  David  burned  inwardly  with  sudden  anger. 
Cleaving  the  water  with  a  powerful  overhand 
stroke,  he  raced  up  the  low,  smooth  slope  of  the 
intervening  swell,  dove  beneath  the  outrigger,  and 
spluttering,  rose  to  clutch  the  heavy  gunwale. 
Still  blind  with  salt,  he  saw  dimly,  in  amazement, 
a  scowling  bronze  face  and  a  shock  of  long,  yellow 
hair  below  some  uplifted  weapon.  With  a  sob  of 
rage,  he  contrived  to  grip  one  bare  ankle  and  to 
jerk.  A  brown,  tattooed  body  fell  splashing  over 
the  opposite  gunwale,  in  the  same  instant  that  he 
hoisted  himself  on  board,  picked  up  the  fallen 
spear,  and  held  it  ready. 

The  paler  man,  still  squatting  aft,  made  no 
effort  to  help  or  hinder.  Naked,  slim  yet  beauti 
fully  muscular,  he  smiled  with  keen,  cynical  brown 


THE   SILVER  LOCKET  7 

eyes,  and  waved  his  shapely  hand  in  a  sign  rather 
of  command  than  of  surrender.  In  the  luminous 
mist  his  body  shone  light-golden,  his  face  stood 
forth  bold  and  suave,  barbaric  and  cruelly  sophis 
ticated.  His  hair,  the  coarse  black  hair  of  Asia, 
was  cropped  in  the  fashion  of  Europe. 

"You  speak  English,"  said  David  confidently. 

The  fellow  eyed  him  without  blinking,  and 
again,  impatiently  yet  gracefully,  signaled  for  him 
to  drop  the  spear. 

The  man  who  had  toppled  overboard  now 
reared  his  strange  blond  head  at  the  stern,  and, 
climbing  in,  crouched  behind  his  master,  over 
whose  shoulder  he  peered  with  a  frightened,  sav 
age  face.  From  his  broad  chest  up  to  his  power 
ful  shoulders,  there  spread  in  greenish-blue  tat 
tooing,  like  a  pair  of  ferns  drooping  asunder,  the 
Bontoc  chak-lag  which  marks  him  who  has  taken 
a  human  head  in  war. 

"  Anito  I "  he  mumbled,  shaking  his  yellow  mop, 
and  staring  at  the  white  man  from  the  sea. 

"Anito?  No,  I  am  not  a  ghost,"  said  David,  in 
such  fragments  as  he  could  recall  of  the  northern 
hillmen's  speech.  "What  are  you  doing  so  far 
south?" 

The  pale  man  turned,  and  over  his  shoulder 
murmured  to  the  bronze  head-hunter.  Then 
both,  as  though  agreed,  sullenly  watched  the  in 
truder.  Whether  or  not  they  had  understood, 


8  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

they  were  plainly  determined  not  to  speak.  And 
at  last,  all  words  proving  useless,  David  lay  back, 
exhausted  yet  wary,  a  third  partner  in  the  hostile 
silence. 

Tropic  day  came  quickly.  The  red  sun  snapped 
the  taut  line  of  the  eastern  sea,  like  a  coal  burn 
ing  a  cord.  All  about  the  banca  thin  vapors  drifted 
westward;  and  from  the  wet,  feverous  green  of 
island  heights  in  the  west,  long  gray  lines  spread 
raggedly,  steaming  like  smoke  above  rifle-pits. 
Soon  it  was  broad  morning,  and  heat  quivered 
round  the  boat,  which  lay  dead  as  a  log,  narrow 
and  greasy  black,  like  a  floating  crocodile. 

This  heat,  at  first,  was  grateful  to  the  naked 
swimmer,  whose  fingers  were  cold,  white,  and 
puckered,  as  though  parboiled.  At  last,  however, 
he  roused  in  some  anxiety. 

"I'll  get  baked  alive  here,"  he  thought.  Scan 
ning  the  bottom  of  the  banca,  he  saw  nothing 
which  could  serve  as  garment.  The  only  cargo 
lay  in  a  small  heap  astern,  before  the  veined,  mus 
cular  legs  of  the  yellow  man  :  a  narrow  Tinglayan 
shield  of  wood,  stained  a  dull  red,  five-pronged, 
laced  with  bejuco,  and  carved  in  lines  as  graceful 
as  those  of  a  violin  ;  some  wooden  "pig-pails"  full 
of  camotes  and  rice;  two  gourds,  two  wooden 
spoons,  and  a  Samoki  bowl  of  clay ;  a  few  hands 
of  bananas;  and  a  sheaf  of  barbed  iron  spear- 
blades,  which  must  have  come  all  the  way  from 


THE   SILVER  LOCKET  9 

the  four  smithies  of  Baliwang.  Food  and  weapons 
there  were,  then,  but  no  clothing.  David  turned 
to  look  forward,  in  hope  to  discover  some  bit  of 
matting. 

Here  also,  however,  he  found  nothing.  He  was 
about  to  give  over,  and  settle  himself  for  a  day  of 
torment,  when  just  behind  the  step  of  the  mast  he 
spied  a  dirty  bundle.  Spear  in  hand,  he  crawled 
toward  this,  and  to  his  great  joy  hauled  up  a 
sopping  mass  of  heavy  cloth.  He  unrolled  the 
precious  wad;  then  eyed  it  in  stupid  wonder. 

It  was  a  khaki  shooting-jacket. 

He  turned  a  swift  glance  aft  —  a  glance  full  of 
anger  and  suspicion. 

"Where  did  you  get  this?"  he  cried. 

The  two  strange  companions  paid  back  his  look 
with  ferocious  interest;  but  neither  answered. 
The  black-haired  man  with  the  yellow  body  smiled 
in  scorn,  scooped  out  a  handful  of  rice  from  the 
Samoki  bowl,  and  began  to  eat. 

David,  fingering  the  soaked  and  tangled  pock 
ets,  found  them  empty,  except  for  a  tag  of  white 
cotton  that,  sewn  loosely  inside  the  breast,  bore  a 
few  scratches  of  ink  —  the  Chinese  tailor's  ticket. 
There  seemed  to  be  nothing  else.  The  jacket, 
though  badly  stained  and  crumpled,  was  of  a 
smart  enough  cut,  and  too  new  to  have  been 
thrown  or  given  away.  A  strange  bit  of  white 
man's  world,  the  tawny  cloth  seemed  to  have  no 


10  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

sense  or  meaning,  there  in  the  dugout.  One  fact 
alone  was  certain :  it  would  have  to  be  dried. 

He  was  spreading  it,  when  he  felt  in  a  second 
ary  inner  pouch,  like  a  match-pocket,  something 
thin,  flat,  and  hard.  With  difficulty  he  found  the 
opening,  and  drew  out  between  finger  and  thumb 
a  small,  shining  object.  At  the  first  glint  of  this 
in  the  sunlight,  a  hoarse  cry  sounded  from  the 
stern. 

"Anito!"  The  dark  barbarian  crouched  be 
hind  his  master  in  a  sudden  fit  of  alarm.  His 
brown  eyes  stared  as  though  the  bit  of  metal  in 
David's  hand  was  about  to  explode;  and  on  his 
dark  forehead  an  old  scar,  of  battle  or  of  eczema, 
turned  to  a  patch  of  greasy  mercury.  The  other 
man  glanced  up,  frowned,  and  bent  philosophi 
cally  t&  his  rice. 

Next  moment,  David  had  forgotten  them  both. 
The  thin  silver  locket  lay  open  in  a  hand  that 
trembled.  It  was  as  if  a  voice  from  home  had 
spoken,  as  if  a  face  which  he  had  known  and  yet 
sought  all  his  life,  had  leaped  out  of  a  dream  to 
confront  him.  By  the  sound,  he  must  have  cried 
aloud ;  and  now  he  sat  staring,  without  thought  of 
past  danger  or  present  incongruity. 

The  photograph,  though  discolored  at  the  edge 
by  the  moisture  of  hot  climates,  showed  in  the 
centre  the  clear  face  of  a  girl,  clean-bred,  high- 
spirited,  whose  eyes  met  his  directly,  with  a  look 


THE   SILVER  LOCKET  11 

at  once  friendly  and  whimsical.  He  had  never 
seen  her  before;  they  might  have  known  each 
other  through  and  through. 

A  grating  sound  made  him  look  up  quickly. 
Past  the  calf  of  the  yellow  man's  leg  the  furtive 
hand  of  the  savage  whipped  back  a  loose  spear- 
blade  from  the  bundle,  then  flashed  aloft,  poised, 
and  threw.  The  blade  came  flying  like  a  dart. 
David  had  barely  time  to  whirl  up  the  folds  of  the 
jacket,  from  which  the  steel  fell  clattering  at  his 
feet.  He  caught  up  his  own  spear,  came  aft  in  a 
single  leap,  and  confiscated  the  remaining  blades. 

When  he  had  tossed  them  forward  beside  the 
locket,  he  laughed.  Something  had  brought  him 
luck  and  gayety. 

"You  chaps  lose  your  chow  for  that,"  he 
chuckled  ;  and  seizing  their  supply  of  bananas 
and  rice,  crawled  back  to  his  former  station. 

The  banco,,  meantime,  had  begun  to  glide  south 
ward  in  a  strong  current  before  a  light  breeze. 
Round  her  the  ocean  glared.  All  day  without  a 
word  the  three  men  saw  the  far-off  hills,  high, 
bold  curves  of  green  volcanic  island,  wheel  astern 
in  drowsy  procession,  palm  fronds,  on  trunks  in 
visible  in  the  distance,  showing  above  each  crest 
like  many  bombs  of  foliage  bursting  in  mid-air. 
David  found  that  day  endless.  Once  he  crawled 
aft  to  seize  a  gourd  of  water.  But  afterward  he  re 
called  neither  thirst  nor  heat,  nor  the  unearthly 


12  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

solitude  and  silence  in  the  crowded  boat ;  only  the 
insatiate  wonder  as  he  studied  his  picture  in  the 
locket. 

No  picture,  it  may  be,  had  ever  so  outlandish  an 
adorer  as  this  young  man,  bare-legged,  his  body 
cramped  in  a  jacket  far  too  tight,  and  his  head 
helmeted  in  a  wooden  bucket.  Near  by,  a  tattooed 
warrior,  using  a  white  pebble  and  his  thumb  for 
forceps,  tugged  out  bristles  of  beard  from  savage 
cheeks.  But  David  saw  only  the  girl's  face,  half 
pitying,  half  mocking  him,  and  always  looking 
straight  out,  with  ghostly  directness,  from  the 
dusk  and  limbo  of  the  stained  photograph. 

The  wide  glory  of  sunset  at  last  burned  out; 
the  ocean  lay  black  and  velvety  under  the  stars ; 
and  a  cool  wind  out  of  the  tropic  night  swept  the 
lonely  craft  on  toward  the  Southern  Cross,  with  a 
faint,  blending  rustle  of  sail  and  of  water. 

It  was  now  that  David  fathomed  the  difficulty 
of  his  case.  The  enemy,  his  two  rescuers,  could 
sleep,  turn  about ;  but  he  must  keep  for  himself 
all  the  watches  of  the  night.  By  clinching  his  will 
he  had  thus  far  stayed  awake;  now,  with  dark 
ness,  the  power  of  sleep  laid  its  leaden  mace  upon 
him. 

Time  and  again  he  shook  himself  out  of  obliv 
ion,  and  sat  upright.  This  became  harder  and 
heavier  —  at  last,  impossible.  Somewhere  in  the 
night,  he  became  aware  that  a  vague  form  was 


THE   SILVER  LOCKET  13 

creeping  toward  him  from  the  stern.  With  a 
bound,  he  woke  and  shouted :  — 

"Go  back,  there!" 

Again  his  forces  drooped.  Again  he  slept,  and 
again  the  prowler  crept  forward  on  hands  and 
knees. 

For  the  second  time  he  drove  the  man  back,  sat 
up  rigidly,  fought  with  sleep.  And  then  a  sudden 
thought,  a  twinge  of  comprehension,  came  to  his 
aid,  and  for  the  moment  at  least,  held  him  wide 
awake. 

Fingering  the  outline  of  the  silver  case,  he 
watched  the  stars  above  his  unknown  course. 

"  What's  the  good  ?"  he  thought.  "  What's  the 
good,  even  if  I  should  find  her?" 

The  impulse  had  come  without  reason,  without 
control;  he  was  jealous,  beyond  bound,  of  the 
owner  of  that  jacket. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   HUT   IN   THE   PALMS  I   DAWN 

BEFORE  David  knew  that  he  had  slept,  a  sudden 
pain  woke  him.  Hard  fingers  dug  into  his  throat, 
and  a  heavy,  naked  body  struggled  to  pin  him  flat 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  Shaggy  hair  brushed 
bis  face.  Some  one  grunted.  A  hand  was  worming 
under  his  shoulders,  to  reach  the  spear-blades. 

David  heaved  up  ward  against  the  living  weight. 
It  forced  him  down  again.  The  rings  of  his  wind 
pipe  seemed  broken  in  that  grip.  With  the  last  of 
his  strength  he  caught  one  sinewy  finger,  bent  it 
back  till  it  snapped,  tore  his  throat  loose,  and, 
wrenching  every  muscle  in  one  fierce  rebound, 
sat  up  and  flung  off  his  panting  assailant. 

It  was  not  yet  dawn.  In  a  roiled,  aqueous  light 
David  saw  the  head-hunter  rise,  crawl  aft,  and 
crouch  behind  the  pale  steersman.  He  could  al 
most  see  the  two  men  watching  him  with  steady 
malignity,  and  could  hear  them  mutter,  discuss 
ing  earnestly  but  secretly. 

From  them,  and  from  the  long,  glimmering 
strip  on  the  eastern  line,  David  turned  suddenly, 
aware  of  a  deep  sound  rushing  along  to  starboard 
both  far  and  near.  Close  at  hand,  the  black  ocean 


THE  HUT  IN  THE  PALMS         15 

broke  in  a  running  line  of  low  surf,  spectrally 
white  in  this  last  hour  of  darkness.  It  was  a  coral 
reef.  Beyond  it  —  as  over  a  wall  of  snow  —  ran  a 
dark,  ragged  fringe  of  land,  so  near  that  even  in 
the  gloom  David  could  descry,  vaguely,  the  top 
most  points  and  tatters  of  palm  groves. 

He  gave  a  start ;  for  through  a  gap  in  the  shift 
ing  barrier  of  spray  a  feeble  light  wavered,  un 
certain  as  the  first  star  at  evening.  He  lost  the 
gleam,  watched  for  it,  and  either  caught  it  once 
more  or  had  strained  his  eyes  into  seeing  what  he 
so  powerfully  desired. 

Turning  toward  his  two  enemies,  he  made 
signs,  vehement  and  unmistakable,  that  they 
should  head  the  boat  into  the  gap.  For  answer, 
the  pale  man  laughed,  as  cool  and  scornful  as 
ever,  and  with  a  strong,  graceful  sweep  of  his  arm, 
plainly  declared  that  no  boat  could  pass  the  long 
barrier  of  the  surf. 

But  David  was  not  to  be  denied.  He  was  sick 
of  his  company ;  he  cared  nothing  for  the  risk  to 
them  or  to  their  boat;  and  the  nearness  of  the 
beach,  so  instant  and  unheralded,  gave  him  a 
great  hunger  for  the  land.  He  would  set  foot  on 
that  lighted  coast,  though  the  light  came  from  a 
cannibal  campfire. 

"Won't  you!"  he  cried.    "I  will  for  you!" 

He  wrested  the  paddle  from  the  steersman,  and 
fighting  against  a  strong  tide,  swung  the  nose  of 


16  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

the  banco,  toward  the  gap.  In  the  darkness  and 
twisting  current,  it  was  touch  and  go;  but  the 
slender  craft,  stung  into  life  by  the  following 
waves,  at  last  shot  through  the  narrow  gate,  just 
as  a  shower  of  flying  drops  drenched  her  from 
stem  to  stern,  as  if  in  raging  disappointment. 
With  a  final  heave  and  downward  slant,  she  ran 
smoothly  into  still  water. 

David  let  her  run,  and  peered  ahead.  A  little 
bay,  a  deep  semicircle,  lay  quiet  as  a  lagoon, 
strange,  dreamy,  and  placid  behind  the  thunder 
ing  breakers.  Now  there  was  no  mistake :  a  light, 
veiled  yet  ruddy,  showed  in  the  low  blackness 
of  the  shore  like  the  spread  embers  of  a  dying 
fire. 

Suddenly,  in  delight,  he  slapped  his  bare  thigh. 
Somewhere  near  the  fire,  through  the  far-spread 
hushing  tumult  of  the  surf,  sounded  the  yapping 
of  a  dog.  It  was  no  whining  pariah  who  scented 
them,  but  a  good  valiant  little  terrier. 

"A  white  man's  dog!"  cried  David  in  jubila 
tion.  "  White  man's,  and  no  mistake !  Here,  you 
chaps,  you  can  go  straight  —  wherever  you  like. 
Here's  where  I  get  out." 

He  sounded  with  his  paddle,  which  brought  up 
in  hard  sand  with  half  the  blade  to  spare.  Fling 
ing  overboard  the  loose  bundle  of  iron  points,  he 
tucked  the  head-hunter's  spear  under  his  arm, 
lowered  both  legs  into  the  cool  water,  straddled 


THE   HUT  IN  THE  PALMS         17 

the  outrigger,  and  began  to  wade  toward  the  light 
and  the  friendly  barking. 

When,  after  a  few  steps,  he  looked  back,  the 
two  men  had  turned  the  banca  and  were  paddling, 
half-distinguishable  shapes,  toward  a  broader  gap 
which  lay,  pale  and  smooth,  to  the  southeast.  For 
a  moment  he  stared  after  them. 

"Of  all  the  unaccountable  blackguards!"  he 
wondered.  Why,  among  the  mad  things  they  had 
done,  should  they  have  grumbled  when  he  slid 
overboard?  "They  seemed,"  he  thought,  "as 
anxious  to  have  me  stay,  as  they  were  before  to 
get  rid  of  me." 

He  would  never  know  why;  for  the  banca,  a 
thin  blade  of  intenser  shadow,  moved  steadily  off 
toward  the  ring  of  foam  that  slowly  brightened 
against  the  east. 

In  shore,  as  he  turned  again  and  waded,  the 
night  still  lay  black.  Though  only  knee  deep,  he 
was  much  farther  from  the  beach  than  he  had 
thought.  Step  after  step  brought  him  no  nearer 
to  dry  ground,  apparently,  except  that  he  could 
hear  the  barking  dog  more  plainly,  could  see  a 
bent  bow  of  coral  sand  curve  like  a  gray  arc  drawn 
in  misty  phosphorus  under  the  black  land.  The 
light,  still  veiled,  lay  scattered  and  trembling  be 
fore  him,  as  on  a  forest  pool.  But  this  gradually 
shrank  and  receded ;  the  oily,  rancid  smell  of  de 
caying  cocoanuts  stole  out  to  his  nostrils ;  and  at 


18  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

last,  his  wet  feet  caked  with  sand,  he  strode  up 
the  half-luminous  coral  beach  toward  a  grove 
profoundly  black  and  silent. 

Some  small  white  thing  darted  sniffing  about 
his  legs.  He  stooped. 

"Hi,  little  dog!"  he  chuckled.  A  fox-terrier 
rubbed  its  cold,  sharp  nose  along  his  shin,  sub 
mitting  to  be  petted.  "  Hi,  little  dog  from  home ! 
Where  's  your  master?" 

The  terrier  capered  about  him,  withdrew  coyly, 
yelped  and  capered  again,  to  beckon  him  toward 
the  light.  Together  the  man  and  the  dog  climbed 
a  low  bank,  and  in  the  sudden  chill  of  land  mist, 
entered  a  labyrinth  of  palm  trunks. 

The  light,  David  now  saw,  came  ruddy  through 
a  kind  of  coarse  mesh,  as  coals  might  glow  inside 
a  great  basket.  After  stumbling  toward  it  among 
the  bewildering  palms,  he  saw  that  it  shone  in 
tiny  points  of  dull  red  through  the  plaited  bam 
boo  walls  of  a  house. 

Doors  and  windows  were  shut  home,  screened 
by  the  same  woven  splints,  porous  to  the  light. 
The  whole  interior  of  a  room  appeared  in  dim 
transparency,  with  black  objects  (whether  of  fur 
niture  or  squatting  men,  David  could  not  tell) 
striking  through  in  broken  outlines. 

He  leaned  on  his  spear,  and  called  aloud. 

"Hallo!   I  say!  Inside  there!" 

There  was  neither  stir  nor  speech  in  the  lighted 


THE  HUT  IN  THE  PALMS         19 

house.  The  terrier  frisked  up  to  the  threshold, 
whined,  and  waited.  Again  David  called,  but 
only  roused  a  bat  which  fluttered  across  the  dim 
radiance  and  up  into  the  lofty  darkness  of  the 
grove.  Whoever  lived  in  that  house  was  a  heavy 
sleeper. 

The  black  figures  remained  motionless.  He  slid 
the  frail  door  aside,  and  stepped  up  into  the  room. 
It  was  empty,  except  for  a  smoky  lamp  that  shone 
on  a  rough  table,  and  for  two  long  chairs,  a  yel 
low  Chinese  chest  against  the  wall,  and  beside  it 
a  small  iron  trunk  of  the  English  pattern. 

The  terrier  skipped  across  the  room,  through 
an  open  door,  into  further  darkness.  After  the 
scratching  of  his  paws  there  was  no  sound,  not 
even  the  sound  of  breathing.  David  stood  listen 
ing,  at  a  loss.  Then,  taking  the  lamp,  he  followed 
where  the  dog  had  led,  into  a  little  room  also  bare, 
except  for  a  bed  on  which  the  terrier  already  lay 
curled,  asleep.  No  one  else  had  slept  there,  for 
the  sheet  lay  smooth  over  the  matting,  and  the 
mosquito  net  hung  festooned  above. 

The  terrier  opened  one  drowsy  eye,  blinked  at 
the  lamp,  and  finding  himself  unreproved,  fell 
asleep  once  more.  David  laughed. 

"You  got  what  you  wanted,  old  fellow."  He 
looked  about  and  listened,  with  no  result.  "I've 
half  a  mind  to  try  that  bed  myself." 

Instead,  he  returned  to  the  other  room,  replaced 


20  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

his  lamp  on  the  table,  and  stretched  out  in  a 
long  chair  to  wait.  Nobody  came.  Through  the 
open  door  he  could  hear  the  steady  voice  of  the 
breakers  far  out  on  the  reef,  and  could  see,  far 
ther  yet,  the  morning  slowly  diffuse  the  edge  of 
ocean.  His  legs  were  cold  and  growing  numb. 
But  this  did  not  matter,  —  nothing  mattered. 

It  was  still  dark,  the  lamp  still  burned,  when 
he  woke,  or  rather  stirred  in  a  drunken  lethargy 
of  sleep  and  exhaustion.  A  light  step  sounded  at 
the  door,  through  which  swung  the  tall  body  of  a 
young  man  in  white,  barefooted,  with  trousers 
rolled  above  his  knees,  and  a  stick  or  club  in  his 
hand. 

David,  too  drowsy  to  move  or  speak,  saw  the 
newcomer  limp  across  the  threshold,  and  stand, 
as  though  musing,  in  the  little  circle  of  lamplight. 
The  young  man's  face  was  of  a  singular  and  win 
ning  beauty,  —  thin,  sallow,  and  almost  feminine 
in  its  lines,  but  with  the  lips  of  a  commander,  and 
with  bright  gray  eyes,  sad  but  quick,  mournful 
but  haughty.  His  blond  head,  close-cropped,  had 
a  curious,  dangerous  poise,  lifted  slightly,  as 
though  the  man  were  ready  to  answer  or  strike. 
From  kneecap  to  toes  his  legs  were  scarred  with 
red  water- sores. 

"And  live  alone,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  tone 
of  deep  disgust.  "  'And  live  alone  in  the  some 
thing  glade!'  What  ass  wrote  that,  I  wonder? 


THE  HUT  IN  THE  PALMS         21 

Wish  he  were  here  once !  I  'd  see  he  was  fed  up 
with  that  sort  of  thing.  What  rot!  " 

The  voice  was  pleasant,  though  void  of  in 
flection,  like  that  of  a  man  grown  used  to  think 
ing  aloud.  David  got  unsteadily  upon  his  feet. 
At  the  sound  of  this  movement,  the  man  in  white 
wheeled  with  an  instant  and  shocking  violence, 
flinging  upward  the  object  which  David  had  taken 
to  be  a  stick;  In  the  lamplight  it  now  shone 
surprisingly  formidable  —  a  short,  heavy  Mann- 
licher  carbine. 

For  all  his  sudden  start,  the  young  man's 
handsome  face  had  not  altered  by  a  line.  His 
voice  rose  ready  and  brisk,  with  a  kind  of  engag 
ing  insolence. 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  Then,  unper 
turbed,  as  though  there  were  plenty  of  time,  he 
surveyed  David  from  head  to  foot,  lowered  his 
gun,  and  with  a  look  full  of  some  new  and  un 
mitigated  contempt,  flung  out  another  question, 
"And  where  did  you  get  my  shooting- jacket  ?" 

Tired  though  he  was,  and  befuddled  with 
sleep,  David  roused  as  at  a  blow.  No  man  had 
ever  spoken  to  him  in  that  vein,  or  fixed  him  with 
such  a  hateful  stare. 

"I  fell  overboard,"  he  answered  coldly,  "night 
before  last.  Two  men  in  a  banca  picked  me  up  — 
at  least,  I  made  them.  I  landed  here  less  than  an 
hour  ago.  And  as  for  your  jacket,  it  was  in  the 
banca.  I  had  to  wear  something." 


22  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

"Quite  so."  The  gray  eyes  watched  him,  very 
hard  and  bright.  "  Where  are  your  two  friends  ?" 

"  Gone,  I  hope,"  said  David,  with  rising  anger. 
"I  never  saw  them  before,"  he  explained  stiffly, 
giving  back  stare  for  stare.  "And  that's  all  I  can 
tell  you." 

The  young  man  in  white  slung  his  Mannlicher 
in  the  crook  of  his  arm,  and  continued  to  regard 
David  with  a  face  of  unbelief. 

"You're  a  Yankee,  aren't  you?"  he  said 
curtly.  "I've  seen  Yankee  beachcombers  — 
plenty  —  but  never  quite  such  a  blighter  as  you, 
my  friend." 

He  stood  back,  significantly  clear  of  the  door 
way. 

"Tell  your  two  black  and  tans,"  he  went  on; 
"  that  I  carry  this  gun  now.  And  by  the  way,  keep 
the  jacket.  Now  that  you've  worn  it,  I  can  easily 
do  without." 

For  a  moment  David  could  not  trust  himself. 
Then,  very  pale,  and  with  fingers  missing  the 
buttons,  he  ripped  off  the  crumpled  khaki,  and 
stood  forth  naked. 

"So  can  I,"  he  replied,  in  a  voice  that  shook. 
"  I  heard  your  dog  barking  on  shore,  and  thought 
it  was  a  white  man's  dog.  A  natural  mistake,  of 


course." 


He  stalked  over  to  the  Chinese  chest,  folded  the 
khaki  with  great  precision,  and  laid  it  down.  As 


THE  HUT  IN  THE  PALMS         23 

he  did  so,  the  locket  struck  forth  a  muffled  click 
from  the  polished  wood.  Catching  at  the  jacket 
once  more,  David  plunged  his  hand  inside.  He 
was  smiling  queerly;  this,  he  thought,  was  the 
sort  of  man  who  carried  her  picture. 

"You  see,"  he  announced,  holding  up  the  thin 
silver  case,  "you  see,  I  did  n't  take  everything." 

He  spoke  bitterly ;  and  yet  it  was  with  a  pang, 
a  sense  of  loss,  that  he  laid  the  locket  on  the  table. 
He  was  giving  up,  it  seemed,  not  only  the  bit  of 
metal,  but  all  that  it  contained  and  signified,  for 
ever.  This  scornful  and  godlike  young  fellow  in 
white  he  had  thus  far  only  despised;  now  he 
hated,  as  he  saw  him  limp  quickly  to  the  table, 
and  laying  down  the  carbine,  snatch  up  the  keep 
sake  with  boyish  eagerness. 

"Oh,  I  say,"  cried  the  stranger,  opening  the 
silver  shell,  and  looking  for  a  mere  instant,  but 
with  evident  satisfaction,  at  the  picture.  "  I  won 
dered  —  I  would  n't  have  missed  that  for  a  —  a 
good  deal  more  than  I  can  tell  you."  He  snapped 
the  locket  shut,  and  slipped  it  inside  his  tunic. 
"She's  worth  a  few  thousand  of  you  and  me." 

The  speaker  remained  motionless,  with  his 
arrogant  young  face  bowed  in  a  sudden  fit  of 
humility,  his  lean  fingers  drumming  on  the  table, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  some  memory  half  a 
world  away. 

This,   to  David,  was  worse  than  his  plain 


24  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

insolence.  Jealousy,  the  same  jealousy  which  had 
tormented  him  in  the  boat  without  right  or  cause 
or  sense,  had  flamed  up  afresh,  but  now  real  and 
redoubled  in  the  presence  of  this  handsome,  dom 
ineering  rival.  He  longed  to  ask  the  man  to  come 
outside  and  fight ;  but  that,  of  course,  was  absurd. 

"I'm  a  fool,"  said  David  with  conviction; 
and  leaving  the  scornful  stranger  in  possession, 
he  turned  toward  the  door,  indifferent  to  a  weari 
ness  that  made  him  stagger. 

Into  the  long  aisle  of  slender  palms,  through 
which  burned  a  vermilion  sunrise,  he  went  out, 
naked  and  alone. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    HUT   IN   THE    PALMS:   NIGHT 

HE  had  taken  but  a  few  steps,  and  those  dizzily, 
when  the  stranger's  voice  called  after  him,  clear 
and  commanding. 

"  Wait  a  bit ! "  The  man  in  white  stood  looking 
down  from  the  doorway,  with  an  altered  counte 
nance.  "  We  're  all  fools,  if  it  comes  to  that.  I  mean 
to  say,  if  you'd  lived  here  by  your  lonesome,  like 
me,  till  you  felt  ready  to  beat  your  dog  for  not 
answering  —  why,  't  would  have  given  you  a 
start.  A  man  with  your  face  and  build  is  no 
beachcomber,  of  course,  and  I  beg  pardon.  You 
gave  me  something  like  a  jump,  you  know,  and 
your  story  was  a  bit  of  a  shocker.  Wasn't  it,  now, 
to  be  fair?" 

David  stood  there  in  doubt,  sulking. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  in  my  story,"  he  retorted, 
"to  shock  any  man  with  an  open  mind,  or"  — 
he  paused;  then  could  not  help  adding  —  "or  a 
clear  conscience." 

His  rival  in  the  doorway  laughed  —  a  pleasant, 
easy  laugh,  which  was  good  to  hear,  and  which 
gave  his  face  a  look  of  captivating  mischief. 

"Dear  chap,"  he  cried,  "I  haven't  either, 
upon  my  word !  M^v  mind 's  a  perfect  nest  of  sus- 


26  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

picions,  as  yours  would  be  if  — "  He  broke  off 
and  laughed  again.  "And  conscience  —  mine's 
about  as  clear  as  mud.  Come  back  here !  I  like 
the  way  you  took  this." 

But  David,  not  to  be  cast  off  and  whistled  back 
so  easily,  turned  to  go.  On  the  flat  path  his  feet 
stumbled  as  if  among  hummocks ;  his  eyes  were 
dry  and  leaden  in  their  sockets ;  and  round  him 
the  slim  trunks  swayed  and  blurred. 

"  Easy  now ! ' '  coaxed  a  friendly  voice.  "  Pins  a 
little  wobbly  ?  Hold  hard ! "  David  could  not  tell 
whether  he  had  fallen  or  not,  but  at  all  events 
he  was  now  leaning  on  the  Englishman's  shoul 
der  heavily,  and  somehow  without  compunction. 
''Steady  a  bit!  Only  a  step  or  two  — " 

What  followed  David  never  could  recall,  ex 
cept  that  the  stubborn  terrier  would  not  get  off 
the  bed  for  a  long  time,  that  the  glass  of  whisky 
was  tepid  and  potent,  and  that  his  host,  limping 
painfully  about  on  scarred  and  mottled  feet,  was 
scolding  himself  in  a  queer  soliloquy. 

He  remembered  waking  once,  to  see  through 
a  window  the  brightness  of  tropic  day,  the  high 
palm-tops  dazzling  in  silver  spikes,  as  he  rolled 
over  into  the  infinite  luxury  of  sleep. 

It  was  evening  when  he  came  to  himself,  re 
stored  to  normal  spirits,  but  hollow  with  hunger. 
A  candle  burned  in  a  little  sconce  of  bamboo, 
and  on  a  chair,  close  by,  lay  a  cinglet,  a  suit  of 


THE   HUT  IN  THE  PALMS         27 

white,  and  canvas  pumps  coated  with  fresh  pipe 
clay.  He  put  them  on  with  the  gratitude  of  a  cast 
away  redeemed. 

In  the  next  room,  beside  the  lamp,  his  host 
sat  opening  a  tin  —  a  strangely  menial  task,  it 
seemed,  for  a  man  with  the  face  of  a  young  em 
peror. 

"  Hallo !"  he  said  cheerfully,  and  bent  his  shin 
ing  head  over  the  obstinate  metal.  "How  are 
you?  Feeling  peckish?" 

Through  dinner  he  had  little  to  say,  but  sat 
watching,  with  a  quick  smile  whenever  David 
spoke,  a  grave  face  between  times,  and  always  an 
air  of  studying  his  guest.  A  curry  of  tinned  meat 
was  followed  by  gula  with  fresh  cocoanut  milk; 
this,  by  more  whisky  and  tepid  water,  and  then  a 
handful  of  Mrs.  Middleton's  cheroots.  As  soon 
as  the  blue  wreaths  of  Burmah  tobacco  were  coil 
ing  round  the  lamp,  the  two  smokers  leaned  back 
and  eyed  each  other  across  the  little  table,  like 
friends. 

"I  see,"  drawled  the  stranger,  "you're  won 
dering.  What,  now?" 

David  smiled. 

"Not  for  me  to  ask,"  he  replied.  "But  if  you 
don't  mind,  two  things  did  seem  odd — no  serv 
ant,  and  that  gun  lying  just  where  I  can't  see 
it." 

His  host  laughed,  the  same  engaging  laugh 


28  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

which  robbed  his  face  of  all  pride  and  all  sus 
picion. 

"A  good  eye  you  have  there,  old  chap."  He 
stooped,  fished  up  the  carbine  from  under  foot, 
and  stood  it  against  the  wall.  "  Habit,  that's  all. 
It  was  n't  meant  for  you,  I  assure  you.  There  it 
is  —  plain  sight  and  equidistant,  eh  ?  Shows  I 
trust  you?" 

"I  did  n't  mean  that,"  said  David.  "Here  I 
sit,  wearing  your  clothes,  eating  your  food,  smok 
ing  your  tobacco.  You  might  carry  a  cannon  in 
your  lap.  But  you  invited  the  question." 

The  other  nodded.  His  handsome  face  fell 
serious  again  as  he  continued  very  slowly :  — - 

"I  had  a  servant  once,  but  the  poor  devil  got 
frightened  off  —  ran  clear  across  the  island  at 
one  go,  I  dare  say,  with  his  pigtail  straight  out 
behind  him.  I  don't  mind  saying  — " 

The  speaker  paused,  frowned  slightly,  then 
looked  David  square  in  the  eye.  "The  fact  is, 
I  'm  in  a  funk,  rather.  If  they  only  knew,  they 
could  bag  me  whenever  they  liked." 

He  leaned  across,  caught  up  the  stubby  Mann- 
licher,  and  poising  it  athwart  between  them, 
smiled  oddly. 

"I  told  you  I  trusted  you.  Here  goes!"  He 
ran  the  side-bolt  back  and  forth  rapidly.  The 
deadly  mechanism  gave  out  a  smart  succession 
of  clicks,  very  loud  in  the  stillness  of  the  little 


THE   HUT  IN  THE  PALMS         29 

room.  "  Not  a  cartridge  in  it,  you  see.  What 's 
more," — he  leaned  forward  and  whispered, — 
"there's  not  one  in  the  house.  Finish!  And  I'm 
here  alone." 

Something  in  both  voice  and  look  gave  sud 
denly  to  David  an  unaccountable  sense  of  danger 
and  solitude.  He  nodded,  .beginning  to  under 
stand. 

"Bluff?"  he  ventured. 

"Quite  so.  Bluff."  The  Englishman  patted 
the  empty  carbine  as  though  fitting  the  word  to 
it.  "Bluff:  that  describes  the  past  month  of  my 
life  here." 

He  replaced  the  gun  against  the  wall,  and 
leaned  back,  smoking  hard.  Into  the  bare  little 
cell  of  bamboo  a  silence  seemed  to  pour,  not  only 
from  the  tall  grove,  but  from  the  ocean  beyond 
the  reef,  where  the  breakers  no  longer  stirred. 
When  the  stranger  spoke  again,  it  was  with  the 
toneless  voice  and  introverted  gaze  of  a  hermit. 

"Fate,  I  suppose.  I  used  to  laugh  at  such 
nonsense,  but  nights  like  these,  of  late  — "  He 
smiled,  and  shook  his  head  slowly.  "I  feel  cer 
tain,  somehow.  They  're  back  in  this  neighbor 
hood.  This  time,  or  soon.  Yes,  they  '11  get  me. 
Do  you  remember  Hamlet  and  the  sparrow? 
Fate's  the  word.  'If  it  be  not  now,  yet  it  will 
come :  the  readiness  is  all.' ' 

Once  more  the  grove  and  the  ocean  poured 


30  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

their  stillness  round  the  ring  of  lamplight.  The 
night  was  close  and  hot,  without  a  breath.  David, 
watching  the  thin,  resolute  face  poised  as  if  to 
answer  an  invisible  enemy,  felt  no  longer  any 
spark  of  resentment,  but  only  a  nameless  pity. 
This  owner  of  the  locket,  for  all  his  arrogant 
beauty,  was  a  man  in  trouble.  In  the  silence,  a 
shadow  of  mortality  seemed  to  touch  that  shining 
head. 

"Bukhing  to  myself,  eh?"  The  gray  eyes 
brightened,  and  returned  to  the  present  with  a 
snap.  "Beastly  habit.  It 's  your  turn.  —  Do  tell 
us  the  news  outside.  I  have  n't  seen  a  paper 
since  Christmas-time." 

For  the  rest  of  that  evening  the  two  men  talked 
of  things  from  home,  wars,  politics,  and  small 
gossip  from  west  of  Suez  —  familiar  matters,  now 
far  off  and  strange  in  this  tropic  night  on  the 
rim  of  a  neglected  island.  Before  midnight  the 
stranger  rose. 

"  Yawn  away — don't  hide  it,"  he  said.  "  We'll 
save  some  talk  for  morning.  Bed's  the  best  place 
for  you.  I've  another  cot  in  behind." 

Bed  seemed  the  best  place  to  David,  who  fell 
asleep  as  soon  as  he  had  tucked  in  his  netting. 

Despite  weariness  he  slept  ill,  tossing  in  dreams 
painfully  vivid,  swift,  and  interchangeable.  He 
swam  somewhere  in  an  ugly  darkness,  toward  a 
circle  of  ocean  —  lighted  as  if  by  a  magic  lantern 


THE  HUT  IN  THE  PALMS        31 

—  which  always  receded,  and  into  which  jutted 
the  black  bows  of  a  ship  crowded  high  above  with 
glistening  yellow  bodies  of  Chinamen.  Suddenly, 
close  beside  him  in  the  darkness,  through  an  oval 
window  of  silver,  appeared  the  face  of  the  un 
known  girl  whom  he  had  surrendered,  and  who 
looked  at  him  earnestly,  as  though,  from  a  great 
distance  and  through  unspeakable  complexity, 
she  were  imploring  him  to  help  the  other  man. 
The  black  bow  of  the  ship  rushed  between  and 
cut  them  off,  while  a  voice  on  deck  called 
hoarsely,  "  Anito  /  "  A  ghost :  the  voice  was  right ; 
she  was  no  person,  but  an  empty  likeness  blown 
down  the  wind  of  the  world.  Then  the  steward 
of  the  Santo  Nino  was  fishing  for  him,  trolling  a 
log-line  baited  with  biscuit. 

And  then  David  was  awake.  He  had  blown 
out  his  candle,  so  that  the  room  lay  stuffed  with 
a  darkness  dense  as  India-rubber,  except  toward 
the  window,  where  the  heavy  screen  of  palms  shut 
out  the  moon,  but  flickered  slowly  and  made  a 
turbid  stirring  of  the  night.  As  he  watched  this, 
David  found  himself  wondering  who  They  might 
be.  The  vague  pronoun  haunted  him  drowsily, 
suggesting  unseen  and  evil  forces  in  ambush 
round  the  hut.  Who  were  They  ? 

Another  question  vexed  him.  What  could  this 
man  be,  at  whose  table  he  had  eaten,  yet  whose 
name  —  as  he  now  recalled  with  a  start  —  was 


32  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

totally  unknown  ?  Some  trader  in  coprah ;  the 
rancid  smell  of  cocoanut  oil,  pervading  the  grove, 
gave  the  most  plausible  answer. 

As  he  lay  thinking,  a  slight  noise  made  him  sit 
up  in  bed,  suddenly  but  warily.  Underneath  the 
floor  of  the  stilted  hut  something  moved  with  a 
stealthy,  intermittent  motion.  Whether  beast  or 
man,  it  crawled  beneath  his  very  bed,  toward  the 
next  room.  David  had  raised  his  netting,  and  was 
about  to  slip  through  to  the  floor,  when  from  be 
low,  somewhere  near  their  dinner-table,  sounded 
a  faint  rapping  of  knuckles  against  the  floor 
boards. 

Silence  followed.  After  an  interval,  the 
knuckles  rapped  again ;  and  this  time  a  brushing 
of  bare  feet  told  David  that  his  host  was  roused. 
Then  the  man's  voice  murmured  cautiously:  — 

"Siapaf" 

From  under  the  floor  a  softer  voice  replied :  — 

"  Ginawang." 

The  quick  flare  of  a  match,  rubbed  over  cloth, 
was  converted  slowly  into  the  shaking  light  of 
a  candle,  which  passed  at  once  behind  a  low 
screen.  With  a  creak,  a  loose  board  or  small  trap 
door  was  lifted.  Through  the  woven  wall,  as 
through  a  basket,  David  saw  the  tall  figure  in 
white  bend  over  the  yawning  square  in  the  floor, 
from  which,  like  a  snake,  a  glistening  brown  arm 
rose,  with  fist  clenched.  White  hand  and  dark 


THE  HUT  IN   THE   PALMS         33 

fist  met.  The  fist  opened,  the  hand  closed;  but 
not  before  there  had  dropped,  from  one  to  the 
other,  a  small  green  pellet  as  of  crushed  leaves. 
Then  the  arm  sank  from  sight  like  a  cobra  into  a 
conjurer's  pot.  The  man  in  white  lowered  the 
board  into  place,  crossed  to  the  table,  and  stood 
looking  down.  Furtively  as  he  had  come,  the 
visitor  scuttled  away  underneath. 

David  lay  back  on  his  pillow,  somewhat 
ashamed  of  his  spying.  They,  whoever  They 
were,  had  no  part  in  the  transaction.  He,  there 
fore,  had  none.  This  secret  was  the  Englishman's 
affair.  But  though  conscience  might  make  a 
guest  lie  down  and  turn  his  head  from  the  lighted 
wall,  conscience  could  not  put  him  to  sleep.  He 
lay  for  a  long  time,  wondering. 

Meanwhile,  the  man  in  the  next  room  gave  no 
sign  of  returning  to  bed ;  for  his  candle  remained 
burning,  dim  behind  the  screen,  and  once  or  twice 
the  creak  of  rattan  showed  that  he  must  be  sitting, 
awake  and  restless,  by  his  table.  After  a  time, 
the  lid  of  the  iron  trunk  closed  gently,  and  the 
lock  clicked.  David  heard  the  man  sigh,  heard 
the  crackle  of  stiff  paper,  and  presently  caught  a 
fragrant  whiff  of  hot  sealing-wax.  Then  in  the 
same  formidable  stillness  of  the  palm  labyrinth 
and  of  the  sea,  a  pen  began  to  scratch  like  a  lizard 
running  on  a  wall. 

The  silence  was  great,  the  noise  tiny.    Long 


34  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

afterward,  David  was  to  remember  them  both, 
and  the  amazing  reflex  of  alarm,  the  sudden  con 
traction  and  rebound  of  muscles,  which  sent  him 
headfirst  through  the  mosquito  gauze,  like  a 
clown  through  a  hoop,  in  panic-stricken  somer 
sault.  The  writer  at  the  table  had  cried  aloud  — 
a  single  cry,  cut  short  by  a  terrific  scuffle  and 
fall. 

Plunging  for  the  lighted  door,  David  went 
down  full  length  in  a  crash  of  broken  wood,  and 
rolled  among  the  splinters  of  a  chair.  His  down 
fall,  louder  than  the  other,  shook  the  house  from 
end  to  end.  When  he  had  risen  out  of  the  tangle, 
and  grasping  the  nearest  fragment  as  a  weapon, 
darted  into  the  next  room,  he  had  a  confused 
sense  of  something  dark  vanishing  through  the 
open  door  —  half  imagined,  half  seen  in  the 
merest  corner  of  a  glimpse. 

What  lay  on  the  floor,  however,  caught  and 
held  all  his  eyesight,  all  his  faculties. 

The  young  stranger,  with  half  his  yellow  hair 
turned  black,  was  struggling  to  rise.  His  head, 
lifted  with  extreme  effort,  caught  the  candle-light 
for  a  second,  in  which  the  black  stain  shone  red. 
His  eyes  met  David's  in  a  wavering  look,  without 
sight  or  knowledge,  and  suffered  a  strange  revul 
sion  upward  and  backward,  as  if  by  part  of  the 
same  force  that  wrenched  him  down  again  in  a 
heap. 


THE   HUT  IN  THE  PALMS        35 

It  was  needless  even  to  look  a  second  time ;  and 
yet  David,  though  convinced,  fell  swiftly  to  his 
knees  and  ratified  the  certainty.  The  man  had 
been  cut  down  from  behind,  at  one  blow. 

Sick  and  incredulous,  David  got  upon  his  feet 
and  stared.  The  room  showed  no  tragic  signs, 
but  remained  as  before,  except  that  a  yellow,  tat 
tered  copy  of  "Punch,"  which  had  screened  the 
candle,  now  lay  between  the  table  and  the  outer 
threshold. 

He  listened.  The  house,  the  grove,  the  whole 
island,  might  have  been  the  very  centre  in  an 
archipelago  of  the  dead.  And  when  for  a  moment 
he  stood  in  the  door,  nothing  appeared  but  the 
slim,  lurking  trunks,  through  which  the  long  bow 
of  coral  sand  shone  like  a  snowdrift  in  the  moon 
light. 

Rage  seized  him  at  sight  of  all  this  unmoved 
solitude. 

"Come  in!"  he  cried,  and  shook  his  fist. 
"Come  in  here  and  finish  the  job!" 

The  night  received  his  challenge,  and  gave  back 
no  sound. 

Returning  toward  the  candle,  he  stooped  and 
picked  up  the  copy  of  "Punch."  Across  the  pic 
tured  cover,  stamped  in  red  and  still  damp,  was  the 
print  of  a  naked  foot,  with  the  great  toe  twisted 
out,  flaring  at  right  angles  in  no  human  fashion. 
He  spread  the  sheet  on  the  table  and  stared  in 


36  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

a  daze,  as  though  poring  over  an  impossible 
map. 

The  gleam  of  something  bright,  close  by,  led 
his  gaze  dully  from  the  margin.  Under  the  candle 
the  silver  locket  lay  open,  the  girl's  face  looking 
up  at  him,  serene,  and  far  removed  from  all  this 
violence. 

Beside  the  locket,  in  turn,  lay  a  small  oblong 
packet,  wrapped  in  manila  paper,  tied  with  a 
neat  blue  and  white  twine  of  Japanese  fibre,  and 
sealed  with  red  wax.  A  pen,  not  yet  dry,  leaned 
across  it  in  a  splutter  of  ink.  A  moment  ago,  he 
had  heard  that  pen  at  work  in  the  hand  of  a  living 
man. 

It  had  written  but  three  words  on  the  packet : 

"For  Miss  Mary " 

David  looked  at  her  face  in  the  picture,  then 
down  at  the  other  face  below.  Once  more  the 
same  rage  seized  him,  the  same  hatred  of  that  in 
scrutable  silence  outdoors.  He  wagged  his  head 
stubbornly. 

"  I  '11  take  it  to  her,"  he  promised,  aloud.  "  Let 
them  try  — " 

He  broke  off,  rebuked  by  the  stillness  of  that 
other  man.  Stooping  again,  he  began  to  do  the 
necessary  things  which  remained. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AT   LARGE 

"I'LL  give  her  this  packet,"  thought  David,  as  he 
kept  his  vigil,  spear  in  hand,  through  the  silence. 
And  in  the  glare  of  the  next  morning,  when  he 
turned  away  from  the  shallow  grave  at  the  foot 
of  a  palm,  he  was  already  wondering  in  what 
terms  he  might  break  the  news  of  her  loss. 

"I  '11  find  her,"  he  told  himself,  "and  give  it 
her  with  my  own  hand,  and  say  —  Humph !  will 
I,  though!" 

After  all,  he  knew  only  her  first  name ;  and  at 
this  thought,  quickening  his  pace,  he  tugged  out 
from  his  pocket  the  dead  man's  keys,  and  made 
for  the  house  in  a  sudden  hurry. 

The  Chinese  chest  held  only  clothes,  pipe  to 
bacco,  a  small  box  of  chlorodyne  and  other  medi 
cines,  and  the  usual  white  man's  kit.  In  the  iron 
trunk  lay  more  clothes,  under  which  were  hidden 
a  small  chamois  bag  of  sovereigns,  and  a  large 
canvas  pouch  of  Mexican  dollars,  weighing  down 
a  few  sheets  of  paper  marked  with  neat  but  unin 
telligible  figures  —  dates,  sums  of  money,  and 
meaningless  abbreviations.  From  under  these 


38  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

again,  David  fished  out  that  same  green  pellet — 
a  wad  of  plantain-leaf,  folded  like  a  chew  of  betel 
—  which  the  crawling  visitor  Ginawang  had  left. 
It  contained  a  solitary  pearl,  not  large,  somewhat 
warty,  and  by  no  means  remarkable  either  in 
"  skin  "  or  in  "  orient." 

After  an  hour's  search  he  sat  down,  utterly  de 
feated  :  there  was  not  a  letter,  not  a  written  scrap, 
to  tell  who  had  occupied  this  desolate  house. 

"  But  I  know  her  face,"  he  said  doggedly ;  "  and 
her  name's  Mary,  and  she's  alive  somewhere." 
He  jumped  up  as  though  to  start  off  at  once. 
"And  I'm  going  to  find  her." 

A  tour  of  the  house  and  grove  left  him  as  ill- 
prepared  as  ever.  The  dead  man  was  no  trader 
in  coprah,  even  by  pretext ;  for  there  was  no  go- 
down,  and  the  cocoanuts  lay  smashed  and  rotting 
on  the  ground.  The  dim  cathedral  of  the  grove, 
the  blinding  crescent  of  the  beach,  the  luminous 
indigo  and  snowy  reef  beyond,  harbored  not  a  liv 
ing  figure.  Landward,  through  the  trees,  a  low  slope 
of  misty  unwholesome  verdure  shut  off  the  west. 

"Across  the  island,"  thought  David.  "His 
cook,  the  Chinese  boy,  ran  off  that  way.  If  there 's 
only  a  settlement  — " 

On  the  chance,  he  set  off  inland,  gripping  his 
spear  for  a  staff,  sweltering  under  his  tight  clothes 
and  borrowed  helmet,  as  he  climbed  through  the 
fever-green  tangle  of  bosque.  Before  noon  he  came 


AT  LARGE  39 

out  on  a  little  eminence  from  which,  far  off,  he 
caught  the  glare  of  the  western  ocean. 

His  spirits  rose ;  for  under  the  shade  of  his  hand 
he  could  descry  a  thin  pillar  of  smoke  smudging 
the  tremulous  air  ashore,  and  on  the  flat,  high 
band  of  the  sea  a  scattered  flotilla  of  tiny  boats, 
stuck  like  currants  or  dead  flies. 

"A  station  there,"  he  thought  joyfully ;  and  tired 
as  he  was,  turned  without  halting,  to  tramp  home 
ward  and  pack  up  for  the  journey. 

His  marching  order  was  light:  the  locket,  the 
small  package,  and  the  loose  page  of  "  Punch  " 
with  its  grisly  red  defacement,  stowed  in  a  breast 
pocket;  in  another,  the  small  bag  of  sovereigns, 
and  the  leaf-twisted  pearl ;  and  slung  over  his 
shoulder,  a  bundle  of  clothing  wrapped  round  the 
Mexican  dollars.  With  this  burden,  which  had 
begun  to  grow  heavy,  he  came  swinging  down  at 
sunset  to  the  western  coast. 

He  broke  cover  behind  a  long,  dirty,  white 
washed  bungalow,  a  squat  go-down  with  a  tin 
roof,  and  the  straggling  nipa  huts  of  coolie  lines. 
Boats  and  "poogie"  tubs  littered  the  foreshore, 
which  exhaled  an  insufferable  stench  of  putrid 
shellfish. 

In  the  veranda,  at  a  table,  a  gross  brown  Span 
iard  lolled  in  a  posture,  and  with  a  face,  of  ex 
treme  and  lugubrious  melancholy.  He  sat  look 
ing  into  a  tumbler  full  of  milk;  but  at  sight  of 


40  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

David  he  started  up  in  his  chair  with  a  squeak  of 
dismay. 

"  You  shall  not  come  back  here !"  he  piped,  in 
a  voice  absurdly  small  for  his  great  bulk.  "  It  is 
no  good !  I  will  not  speak ! "  To  prove  this  as 
sertion,  he  began  pouring  out  a  mingled  torrent  of 
Spanish  and  bad  English.  "  Go  away !"  he  cried, 
fluttering  his  pudgy  hand.  "Go  away!" 

Then  his  oration  stopped  short,  his  mouth  re 
mained  open  in  astonishment. 

"Oh!  Ah!"  he  gasped.  "I  think  you  are  that 
Englishman."  And  in  a  rapid  parenthesis  of 
eight  or  ten  murky  sentences  he  sketched  the 
Englishman's  parentage  and  conduct. 

;<  You  see  I'm  not,"  said  David,  and  waited  for 
him  to  regain  breath. 

"That  man,"  cried  the  fat  Spaniard,  waving 
his  arm  toward  the  eastern  side  of  the  island,  "  he 
send  his  cook  to  be  asesino  to  my  stom-ache !  See, 
I  eat  nothing  but  milk!"  Grimacing,  with  a 
shudder  of  burlesque  tragedy,  the  speaker  took 
a  sip  from  his  tumbler.  "That  man,  he  is  the 
thorn  in  my  meat!  Some  day,  look,  I  will  go 
shoot  him.  My  divers,  they  all  steal  for  him ;  and 
from  the  other  fisheries,  everywhere  it  is  the  same. 
They  call  him  Villameres'  Englishman  —  my 
Englishman!  I  will  go  shoot  him  to-morrow. 
Tell  him  so !  Last  night,  look,  he  send  his  damn 
dog  to  bite  me!  Aha,  look  now!" 


AT  LARGE  41 

The  speaker  chirruped  suddenly.  His  broad 
face  lost  all  its  ferocity,  became  radiant  and  fatu 
ous.  Along  the  veranda  skipped  the  fox-terrier, 
which,  with  a  bound,  perched  on  the  fat  knees 
and  began  sniffing  at  the  glass  of  milk. 

"Aha !"  crowed  the  Spaniard.  "Aha,  my  little 
friend!  You  see,  he  bites  me  not!  I  have  sub 
orned  that  man's  dog.v 

David  had  utterly  forgotten  the  fickle  beast, 
which  now  nestled  comfortably  on  a  new  lap.  If 
the  runaway  had  stayed  at  home  last  night,  and 
barked,  his  master  might  yet  be  living. 

On  the  heels  of  this  thought  followed  another : 
suppose  the  dog  had  not  run  away  ?  David  fum 
bled  in  his  pocket. 

"Does  this,"  he  said  abruptly,  unfolding  and 
holding  out  the  torn  page  of  "  Punch,"  "  does  this 
mean  anything  to  you  ?" 

The  fat  man  glanced  up  from  patting  the  ter 
rier,  with  his  brown  face  still  joyful  as  a  babe's. 

"What  is  that?"  he  asked,  looking  with  un 
feigned  surprise  at  the  red  print  of  the  twisted 
foot. 

David  folded  the  paper,  and  slipped  it  into  his 
pocket.  This  man  had  no  part  in  last  night's 
doings. 

"Nothing,"  he  answered.  "That's  the  wrong 
paper.  I've  lost  the  right  one.  Will  you  tell  me, 
senor,  where  I  may  sleep  for  the  night  ?" 


42  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

The  Spaniard  eyed  him  with  helpless,  waver 
ing  suspicion. 

"Is  that  man  coming,  too?"  he  squeaked  in 
dignantly. 

"The  man,"  David  quietly  replied,  "is  dead." 

His  questioner  gave  such  a  start  that  the  terrier 
fell  through  his  lap.  Then,  with  a  sigh  of  honest 
relief,  he  said :  — 

"I  am  so  glad  to  hear  that." 

Smiling  pleasantly  at  David,  he  took  a  long  sip 
of  milk,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair  to  consider. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  he  repeated  pensively.  "He 
was  to  my  mind  just  so  —  as  his  cook  is  asesino 
to  my  stom-ache.  You  will  stay,  and  cele 
brate?" 

Thus  David  began  his  acquaintance  with  Casi- 
miro  Villameres,  local  agent  for  the  firm  of  pearl- 
fishers,  Saldero  y  Hermanos.  He  was  a  lazy,  mel 
ancholy  dyspeptic,  this  agent,  in  whose  bungalow 
there  mouldered  the  smell  of  "poogie"  tubs  and 
of  much  greasy  cooking.  Never  had  David  three 
more  unprofitable  days  to  spend.  Villameres, 
gross  and  cropfull,  squeaked  in  his  absurd  little 
voice  straight  on  from  daybreak,  through  the 
drowsy  noon,  to  nightfall ;  but  not  one  word  fur 
nished  David  with  any  hint  beyond  what  he  had 
already  known  or  guessed.  The  dead  man  had 
bought  pearls,  independently,  and  without  scru 
ple.  Many  a  coolie  from  Saldero  y  Hermanos 


AT  LARGE  43 

must  have  crawled  under  his  hut,  like  the  brown 
man  whose  arm  David  had  seen  rising  out  of  the 
dark.  He  had  uncounted  enemies,  said  Villa- 
meres,  but  not  even  they  knew  him  by  name. 

The  runaway  cook,  a  solemn  Canton  boy,  had 
nothing  to  impart. 

"My  no  sabee,"  he  repeated  stubbornly;  once 
with  the  sarcastic  addition :  "  Name-card  no  hab- 
got." 

Yet  David  broke,  for  an  instant,  through  this 
Chinese  wall  of  reserve.  Without  warning,  he 
spread  on  the  table,  after  breakfast,  the  loose 
sheet  with  which  he  had  already  tried  Villameres. 
The  slant  eyes  of  the  Chinaman  never  blinked, 
but  he  set  down  a  plate  which  clattered  slightly, 
and  turning,  left  the  room.  For  the  rest  of  that 
day  he  was  missing. 

To  get  his  story,  and  to  understand  his  terror, 
David  would  have  tracked  him  through  the 
jungle;  but  on  the  next  morning,  the  Baltasar 
Saldero,  a  dirty  lump  of  a  steamer,  violated  the 
tropic  silence  of  the  bay  with  her  screaming  whis 
tle  and  rumbling  chains.  Her  captain,  a  barefoot 
mestizo,  was  drunk  and  still  drinking ;  a  black  sow 
ran  loose  by  the  forward  winches,  and  a  row  of 
gamecocks,  crowing  without  pause,  stood  fettered 
by  the  legs  to  the  rods  of  her  steering-gear;  her 
one  bath-tub  contained  cigar-ends,  a  torn  life- 
preserver,  and  a  bunch  of  bananas ;  but  she  was 


44  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

the  only  craft  which  for  the  next  month  would 
come  nosing  through  that  labyrinth  of  reefs. 

Casimiro  Villameres  bade  his  guest  farewell 
with  a  kind  of  stolid  gloom. 

"  Adios,  Senor  Bowman,"  he  said,  keeping  his 
seat  by  the  table,  with  the  inconstant  terrier  asleep 
on  his  knees.  "I  miss  you  already."  He  yawned. 
"A  man  here,  look,  he  has  no  conversation."  He 
screwed  up  his  fat  face  in  disgust,  as  he  raised  his 
tumbler  of  milk.  "And  even  if  the  cook  comes 
back,  he  will  be  asesino  to  my  stom-ache!" 

The  last  that  David  saw,  from  the  stern  of  the 
ship,  was  the  huddled,  pensive  figure  fondling  his 
adopted  pet. 

The  crawling  steamer,  scented  by  day  with 
onions,  coprah,  and  frying  grease,  outrageous  at 
night  with  the  squalling  challenges  of  strange 
game-cocks  picked  up  at  every  village  along  the 
coast,  at  last  came  to  anchor  in  the  harbor  of 
Cebu. 

On  the  rude  veranda  of  the  little  club  which 
overhangs  the  water,  a  young  officer,  his  khaki 
badged  with  the  scarlet  of  the  Constabulary, 
jumped  up  in  such  disorder  that  his  glass  fell  off 
the  rail  into  the  sea. 

"Bowman!"  he  cried,  staring.  "How  in ! 

They  cabled  from  Manila  that  you  were  dead. " 

"They  were  just  half  right,"  said  David,  sitting 
down  exultant  in  a  white  man's  chair,  on  terra 


AT  LARGE  45 

cognita.  "  Picked  up,  I  was,  and  carried  all  over 
the  shop.  Look,  bamboo  officer:  have  you  any 
civilian  clothes  loose  enough  for  me  ?  And  what 's 
the  next  steamer  for  Manila  ?" 

The  bamboo  officer  took  this  resurrection 
calmly,  like  a  man  of  experience. 

" Sung-Kiang,"  he  answered  promptly.  "Sails 
in  half  an  hour.  I  can  fit  you.  Why  this  haste  ? 
You  going  home,  or  she  coming  out  ?  " 

"Shut  up,"  said  David.  "Come  along,  give  us 
your  wardrobe,  and  what  ready  money  you  can 


raise." 


A  gallop  in  a  carromato  and  a  spurt  in  a  revenue 
launch  brought  him  safely  on  board  the  Sung- 
Kiang.  In  ten  minutes  out  of  that  hurry  he  had 
seen  the  British  consul,  and  left  not  only  his  own 
written  statement,  but  the  dead  man's  clothes, 
money,  and  pellet  of  plantain-leaf.  About  the 
locket,  however,  he  had  said  nothing;  it  still  lay 
in  his  breast-pocket  with  the  little  oblong  pack 
age,  the  stained  page,  and  the  Chinese  tailor's 
label  torn  from  the  shoo  ting- jacket. 

"These  belong  to  us,"  he  thought,  as  he 
watched  the  shore  of  Mac-tan  slip  behind.  "It's 
our  affair,  hers  and  mine.  And  these  are  all  our 
documents." 

That  night,  at  dinner,  the  blue-gowned  steward 
did  him  a  good  service. 

"This  chit,"  said  David,  handing  to  the  sad 


46  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

dignitary  a  copy  of  the  tailor's  label.  "What 
thing  he  talkee?" 

The  steward  held  the  paper  clear  of  the  flutter 
ing  punkah,  and  squinted. 

"My  sabee  he,"  was  his  grave  reply;  "b'long 
Nam  Sing,  Hongkong  shop." 

With  this  crumb  of  knowledge,  David  landed 
in  Manila,  to  be  hailed  on  Muelle  del  Rey  by  the 
first  of  many  friends,  all  astonished  at  his  restora 
tion  from  the  sea.  Friends,  affairs,  the  need  of 
taking  up  his  broken  preparations  for  home,  kept 
him  delayed  in  Manila  when  he  would  gladly 
have  followed  to  Hongkong  even  so  slight  a  trail 
as  one  leading  to  Nam  Sing's  shop.  Here  there 
was  no  news ;  among  all  the  Englishmen  with 
whom  he  talked  at  the  Tiffin  Club  or  the  Ermita, 
not  one  could  help  him ;  and  in  these  dull,  crowded 
streets  the  reality  of  his  late  adventure  began  to 
fade,  his  promise  began  to  seem  quixotic,  and 
his  purpose  to  grow  blunt,  in  spite  of  the  silver 
case  and  the  packet  which  he  still  jealously 
guarded. 

A  single  episode"  broke  the  monotony  of  his 
stay.  One  morning  when  the  Virgin  of  Antipolo 
had  come  down  from  the  mountains,  to  be  car 
ried  in  state  through  the  city,  David,  blocked  on 
a  crowded  corner,  saw  a  man  watching  him  from 
across  the  street.  The  chanting  procession  passed 
between,  convoying  with  censers,  flags,  and  un- 


AT  LARGE  47 

lighted  candles,  the  strange  little  wooden  figure 
aloft  in  tinsel  robes ;  and  among  all  the  staring 
faces,  white  or  sallow  or  brown,  this  one  swarthy 
face,  under  a  rakish  straw  hat,  had  no  eye  for 
the  pageant.  So  soon  as  David's  glance  fell  on 
him,  the  man  turned  into  the  crowd  and  was 
gone. 

"Who  was  that?"  The  dark  features,  intent 
and  passionate,  had  leaped  out,  plain  as  a  threat, 
from  among  the  sleepy  spectators.  David  had 
seen  the  man  before,  though  where,  he  could  not 
guess.  It  was  a  curious  face  —  the  forehead  low 
but  broad,  the  mouth  coarse  but  humorous.  "  He 
might  be  anybody,"  thought  David;  "anybody, 
from  a  Spanish  lawyer  down  on  his  luck,  to  a  half- 
breed  second  engineer.  But  I've  seen  him,  and 
—  and  by  his  looks,  he  's  no  friend  of  mine." 

He  did  not  meet  the  fellow  again.  A  week 
later,  his  affairs  in  Manila  being  wound  up,  he 
had  taken  ship  for  Hongkong. 

It  was  a  sultry  morning  when  he  disembarked 
in  that  wide  and  busy  harbor,  under  the  steep, 
dark-green  shelter  of  the  Peak.  Ahead  of  the 
puffing  launch,  seen  between  junks,  black  mail- 
boats,  and  drab  giants  of  the  China  Squadron, 
the  city  sweltered  through  quivering  heat.  The 
square,  solid  houses,  tier  upon  tier  of  clumsy, 
tenement-like  verandas,  promised  nothing  but 
heat  and  stupidity.  Far  off,  by  the  Kowloon  ferry- 


48  THE   TWISTED  FOOT 

slip,  the  tall  figure  of  a  Sikh  policeman,  in  tawny 
uniform  and  scarlet  turban,  upheld  on  slow- 
moving  spindle-shanks  the  dignity  of  British 
order. 

In  the  face,  in  the  teeth  of  all  this,  his  dream 
suddenly  came  true. 

The  glare  of  hot  daylight  showed,  off  the  port 
bow  of  the  launch,  the  high,  black  bow  of  a 
steamer  crowded  with  hundreds  of  naked  bodies, 
shining  wet  and  golden  in  the  sun  —  a  crowd  of 
coolies  sluicing  themselves  with  water.  Squab 
bling  and  cackling,  they  made  a  patch  of  vivid 
color,  which  caught  David's  eye  and  held  it,  as 
though  this  familiar  sight  were  something  new 
and  strange. 

An  uneasy  sense  crept  over  him,  of  some  great 
event  uncannily  repeated,  or  prearranged,  and 
now  about  to  fall. 

Aware  of  a  shadow  on  the  starboard  hand,  he 
turned  to  see,  towering  high  above  them,  the  dark 
iron  crag  of  a  steamer's  quarter.  The  menacing 
bulk  passed  close,  cleaving  the  fairway  of  the 
harbor  toward  open  sea. 

"  Must  be  the  Roon,"  said  a  talkative  lands 
man  to  David,  knowingly.  "She'll  be  off  for 
Singapore." 

To  confute  him,  the  gigantic  stern  swung  de 
liberately  over  their  heads,  displaying  the  white 
letters  of  her  name :  Yin  Shan. 


AT   LARGE  49 

David  read  them  without  interest.  Then,  his 
eyes  chancing  to  rove  higher,  he  sprang  up, 
bumped  into  the  talkative  man,  flung  him  aside, 
and  went  jumping  aft,  over  the  feet  of  indignant 
passengers. 

The  launch  tossed  on  a  wake  of  seething  green 
and  white,  like  an  upheaval  of  lemon  ice.  High 
above  this  lengthening  turmoil,  from  the  after 
rail  of  the  Yin  Shan,  a  girl  in  a  white  dress  stood 
looking  down,  alone. 

She  saw  David,  staring  at  her  as  at  a  ghost.  A 
curious  change,  almost  of  recognition,  a  pallor  of 
sudden  and  great  emotion,  transformed  her.  It 
was  gone  quickly,  while  she  made  a  little  gesture 
of  disappointment. 

His  dream  was  true  and  complete.  The  face, 
now  dislimning  into  the  distance,  was  the  face  in 
the  silver  locket. 

She  became  a  white  speck,  motionless,  in  the 
stern  of  the  departing  ship. 


CHAPTER  V 

MARY:  IN  THE  PLAINS 

HE  had  seen  her.  The  shocking  coincidence  left 
him  between  amazements  —  whether  he  had  seen 
her  at  last,  or  too  soon,  or  only  by  proxy  and  mis 
take.  This  mental  hubbub  —  which  set  him 
walking  briskly  but  without  aim  down  half  the 
crowded  length  of  the  Queen's  Road  —  subsided 
or  recoiled  into  his  first  certainty.  The  face  look 
ing  down  from  the  stern  was  the  face  inside  the 
dead  man's  keepsake.  He  had  seen  her  —  but 
outward  bound. 

He  turned,  with  a  sudden,  clear,  and  urgent 
purpose.  The  Yin  Shan  was  Caird  &  Lovett's 
boat.  He  knew  a  junior  in  that  firm. 

"  Hai !"  At  his  raised  hand,  a  lounging  saffron 
and  blue  figure  sprang  up  between  brass-bound 
shafts,  and  came  trundling  his  rickshaw  through 
the  press  of  busy  coolies  and  grave  yellow  mer 
chants. 

"  Fai-di ! "  The  rickshaw  tilted,  caught  the  bal 
ance,  and  started  on  its  rattling  way. 

Under  the  cavernous,  vaulted  roof  of  the  pave 
ment,  a  swarthy  man,  wearing  a  slouch  Panama, 


MARY:  IN  THE  PLAINS  51 

and  Chefoo  silk  pale  as  the  tassels  of  ripe  maize, 
turned  to  inspect  the  strings  of  flat,  white-pow 
dered  devil-fish  in  a  provision  shop.  So  abrupt 
was  his  movement,  that  only  by  chance  had  David 
caught  the  necessary  glimpse.  The  dark  features, 
the  shrewd  eyes  and  coarse  but  humorous  mouth, 
were  those  of  the  stranger  who  had  watched  him 
through  the  crowd  in  Manila.  Now,  by  a  single 
flash  of  discomfiture,  they  showed  that  David  had 
turned  with  inconvenient  speed.  Nor  was  it  natu 
ral  for  any  man  to  be  so  suddenly  engrossed  in 
dry  devil-fish  and  brown,  varnished  ducks. 

"Now  what 's  he  after  ?"  thought  David.  "I'll 
ask  him,  and  have  it  out." 

But  when  he  had  shouted  to  the  bounding 
coolie,  and  the  rickshaw,  wheeling,  had  rammed  a 
sedan  chair,  and  disengaged  from  a  brawl,  the  man 
in  Chefoo  silk  had  dodged  out  of  sight  down  one 
of  the  narrow  alleys  leading  to  the  fish  market. 

The  incident  had  faded  by  the  time  that  David 
was  mounting  the  great  steps  of  Caird  &  Lovett, 
Limited.  In  a  sudden  flush  of  excitement  he 
crossed  the  dark,  cool  office,  and  called  for  his 
friend. 

A  merry  little  junior,  alert  and  smiling,  shook 
hands  across  a  polished  plateau  of  teak. 

"  How  are  Cadwallader  and  all  his  goats  ?"  was 
David's  greeting.  "Who  brought  you  a  pony 
once  from  the  north  of  China?" 


52  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

The  happy  little  Welshman  grinned. 

"  One  of  my  goats,"  he  answered.  "  But  he  was 
a  good  judge  of  horseflesh,  and  what  can  I  do  for 
him?" 

"  List  of  passengers,  please  —  Yin  Shan."  For 
some  reason,  David  found  his  pulse  beating 
quickly  as  he  ran  his  finger  down  the  names,  all 
written  alike,  stripped  of  distinction,  in  the  same 
neat  office  hand.  In  a  second  or  two  he  would 
know  the  next  word  after  "  Mary"  —  the  word  at 
which  the  other  man  had  been  struck  down  in  the 
hut. 

He  groaned. 

"What's  up  ?"  inquired  keen  little  Mr.  Pryce. 

"Here,"  said  David,  in  dismay.  "Do  you  re 
member  either  of  these?" 

He  turned  the  list  round,  with  two  fingers, 
spread  apart,  on  the  names :  — 

"Miss  Mary  Naves,  Sourabaya." 

"Miss  Mary  Arnot,  Sourabaya." 

The  Welshman  twisted  his  gingery  mustache, 
studied  the  catalogue  soberly,  then  looked  up 
with  a  twinkling  eye. 

"Can't  say  I  do,"  he  answered.  "Oh,  wait  a 
bit !  One  was  deuced  pretty.  But  blessed  if  I  re 
member  which  came  first." 

David  watched  him  grimly. 

"Ap  Evans,  Ap  Rice,  no  fooling,"  he  threat 
ened.  "I  'm  in  earnest." 


MARY:  IN  THE  PLAINS  53 

"  So  am  I,"  said  the  junior,  in  surprise.  "  Don't 
you  know  which  ?  Bar  sells,  I  don't." 

The  two  men  had  tiffin  together  at  the  club ; 
but  though  Pryce  racked  his  brain,  he  could  give 
no  further  help.  The  whole  affair  seemed  to 
please  his  sense  of  humor  inordinately. 

"New  departure  for  you,"  he  suggested,  "to 
take  such  interest  in  the  ladies.  One  thing,  they'll 
both  be  in  Sourabaya,  and  two  are  better  than 
one.  Why  not  go  there?" 

"Thanks,  I  will."  David's  serious  look  made 
the  little  man  stare.  " What's  the  next  ship?" 

Two  afternoons  later,  Pryce  left  his  cricket  to 
see  this  unaccountable  friend  off.  His  launch 
dropped  astern,  and  David,  turning  to  climb  the 
ladder,  ungratefully  forgot  him  in  that  instant; 
for,  looking  down  from  the  rail,  with  a  smile  of 
satisfaction,  was  the  dark,  strangely  familiar  face 
of  the  man  in  maize-colored  silk. 

He  had  gone  below  by  the  time  David  reached 
the  deck. 

Doubts  were  now  out  of  the  question.  Who 
ever  he  was,  he  had  not  come  all  this  way  by 
chance.  His  presence  on  board  was  so  far  wel 
come,  that  it  would  give  an  impatient  traveler 
something  to  do. 

Through  dinner,  David  watched  him  down  the 
length  of  the  table.  He  ate  slowly  and  clumsily, 
studying,  between  bites,  one  after  another  of  his 


54  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

messmates,  with  great  brown  eyes  of  which  the 
iris,  fringed  like  a  Cingalee's  with  velvety  radi 
ation,  had  a  strange  lustre,  as  though  touched 
with  belladonna.  Yet  they  were  bold  eyes,  quick 
and  cynical,  which  met  David's  with  a  sly  gleam 
of  amusement.  The  fellow  might  have  been  hatch- 
ing  a  joke. 

Through  the  general  murmur  of  talk  his  voice 
came  once  or  twice  —  soft  and  musical,  but  re 
strained  or  retarded,  dwelling,  now  and  then,  on 
words  which  came  with  effort.  He  was  discuss 
ing  markets  with  a  Dutch  coffee-planter. 

At  one  point,  when  their  talk  grew  animated; 
he  plucked  from  the  heart  of  his  curry  a  little 
white  ball  of  rice,  and  poising  it  with  finger-tips 
close-bunched,  popped  it  between  his  thick  lips. 
Then,  abashed,  he  caught  up  his  fork  with  an  air 
of  guilt. 

The  trivial  slip  went  unmarked  except  by  Da 
vid,  on  whom  it  had  a  singular  effect.  Somewhere 
he  had  seen  this  fellow,  or  one  like  him,  eating 
in  the  same  fashion.  Where,  he  could  not  for  his 
life  recall.  A  reversion  to  savagery,  here  in  this 
lighted  saloon,  the  thing  stuck  in  his  mind  and 
troubled  him. 

Later  that  evening,  he  hacl  walked  his  five 
miles  round  the  deck,  and  stood  by  the  rail, 
watching  the  great  stars  above  an  ocean  of  glossy 
ebony. 


MARY:  IN  THE  PLAINS  55 

"Sir,  will  you  smoke  ?"  said  a  low,  ingratiating 
voice.  The  man  in  Chefoo  silk  stood  at  his  elbow, 
offering  a  packet  of  cigarettes. 

Before  he  could  say  yes  or  no,  David  found  a 
cigarette  thrust  between  his  lips,  and  a  match, 
shielded  in  the  box  cover,  flaming  beneath  his 
nose.  Above  the  sudden  flare  he  met  the  scrutiny 
of  those  large,  brown  eyes,  so  lustrous  and  yet  so 
penetrating. 

"You  get  these  from  Manila,"  he  said,  with 
meaning. 

The  stranger,  invisible  after  the  single  flash,; 
laughed  pleasantly. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  answered,  like  a  child  eager  to 
talk.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  get  them  there !" 

"I  have  seen  you  in  Manila,"  said  David. 

Again  the  man  laughed. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  he,  "I  have  seen  you  there." 

"Also  in  Hongkong?" 

This  question,  equally  droll,  evoked  another  fit 
of  musical  and  artless  merriment. 

"  Yes,  yes,  in  Hongkong,  too ! "  Another  match 
flared,  glowed  golden  through  the  frail  sides  of 
the  box,  and  lighted  for  an  instant  the  man's 
heavy  lips  and  strong,  white  teeth.  "  In  Hong 
kong  I  saw  you  many  times,  playing  at  the  crickets 
with  your  friends.  Ah  by  Jove,"  he  cried,  with  a 
comical  gusto,  "  what  noble  game  are  the  crick 
ets!"  Leaning  both  elbows  on  the  rail,  he  blew 


56  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

overboard  a  long  stream  from  his  cigarette,  and 
sighed.  "  That  is  a  manly  devotion.  Your  great 
English  poet  says :  — 

"  Give  me  a  willow  bat,  and  I 

With  cork  and  hide  and  twine, 
From  century  to  century 

Will  gambol  round  my  shrine!  " 

The  speaker  smacked  the  rail  with  his  open 
palm.  "  Ah  by  Jove,  I  envy  you !  A  noble  game, 
the  crickets!" 

David  laughed. 

"I  prefer  football,"  he  replied.  "Besides,  I'm 
an  American." 

His  companion  sighed  once  more,  in  genuine 
disappointment. 

"I  thought,"  he  answered  sadly,  "I  thought 

you  are  English,  when  I  first  saw  you  in " 

He  broke  off,  with  some  confusion.  "  I  mean,  you 
played  the  crickets  so  lifelike.  That  is  too  bad !" 

David  had  listened  closely.  Now,  without 
warning,  he  struck  a  match  in  his  turn  and  held 
it  up. 

"  Where  did  you  first  see  me  ?"  he  propounded 
severely,  studying  the  face  that  leaped  out  so 
prominent  in  this  little  torchlight  —  a  broad, 
swarthy  face,  at  once  bold  and  suave. 

It  altered  somewhat,  gathering  sudden  lines  of 
craft  or  perplexity.  The  match  went  out,  leaving 
David  no  wiser,  except  for  a  premonition  that  the 


MARY:  IN  THE  PLAINS  57 

fellow  was  about  to  lie.  In  the  darkness  sounded 
a  low  laugh,  of  almost  infantile  pleasure. 

"  I  cannot  think,"  came  the  answer.  "  Ah,  how 
extraordiny!  I  cannot  think  where  it  was.  But 
football  is  noble  game,  too.  For  me,  no,  it  is  too 
wild;  for  I  am  timid  man,  and  very  bookish." 
The  cigarette  glowed  once  or  twice,  lighting 
dimly  his  coarse  and  cynical  lips,  which  now  had 
a  pensive  droop.  "Do  you  know" — the  soft 
voice  grew  deeply  confidential  —  "  do  you  know, 
my  one  regreet  is,  I  was  not  an  Englishman.  Ah 
by  Jove!" 

He  continued,  leaning  on  the  rail,  to  smoke  and 
chat  and  laugh,  in  the  disjointed  fashion  of  a 
man  easily  diverted,  who  has  nothing  to  conceal. 
Long  after  bedtime,  when  they  parted,  David 
had  learned  many  gratuitous  facts :  the  man's 
name  was  Rosario,  he  was  a  sugar-planter,  he  was 
bound  for  Sourabaya  to  see  brokers,  and  thence 
go  inland.  His  plans  had  no  offense,  his  remarks 
a  childlike  simplicity,  with  now  and  then  some 
unexpected  turn  of  childlike  cunning. 

And  yet  by  daylight  David  was  far  from  satis 
fied.  At  dinner,  this  man  had  watched  him  with 
a  furtive  smile,  between  anxiety  and  bravado ; 
at  breakfast,  he  nodded  and  grinned  like  an  old 
friend.  Plainly,  Mr.  Rosario  had  in  his  own 
mind  settled  some  point,  had  formed  a  secret  con 
clusion,  and  was  henceforth  at  ease.  Moreover, 


58  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

thought  David,  he  was  not  of  the  sugar- pi  ant  ing 
type,  was  neither  timid  nor  bookish,  and  knew 
perfectly,  all  the  time,  where  they  two  had  met 
before. 

The  voyage  slipped  by  without  incident.  One 
hot,  clear  morning,  from  the  skyline  on  the  star 
board  hand,  rose  the  steep  Coffins  of  Tuban,  and 
afterward,  continuing  them  to  port,  the  cracked 
and  fissured"  plateaus  of  Madura.  Gradually  this 
wall  split  asunder  into  the  yellow  gulf  that  swel 
ters  between  Madura  and  the  east  of  Java.  The 
ship  ploughed  laboriously  through  turbid  water, 
past  the  lightship  of  the  Westgat,  and  on  be 
tween  the  green  hills  of  the  strait.  Far  out  from 
Sourabaya  roads  came  racing  the  clustered  hulls 
of  the  tambangans,  which,  swerving  alongside, 
manned  by  fierce  brown  boatmen,  hooked  them 
selves  to  the  steamer  at  full  speed,  like  a  swarm 
of  pirates. 

The  ship  had  lost  the  red  roofs  of  little  Gris- 
seh,  and  went  gliding  toward  the  masts  and  high 
dusty  green  chimara  tops  of  the  city,  when  below, 
from  among  the  swirling  clump  of  tethered  boats, 
a  new  uproar  broke  out.  Boatmen  and  ship's 
officers  were  squalling  at  one  another,  as  in  a 
moment  of  collision. 

David,  turning  idly  toward  the  rail,  dodged  in 
time  to  avoid  being  knocked  down  by  the  timid 
and  bookish  Rosario,  who  was  running  aft  at  top 


MARY:   IN  THE   PLAINS  59 

speed,  scowling  over  the  side,  and  brandishing 
his  fists  as  he  ran. 

Below,  on  the  muddy  water,  a  tambangan  had 
cut  her  painter,  and  slewed  careering  astern. 

"Mr.  Bailey!"  roared  the  captain,  from  the 
bridge,  "  if  you  can't  watch  your  crimson  coolies 
better  than  that.  .  .  .  The  health  officer  will  give 
us  what  for!" 

The  tambangan  sped  now  so  far  behind,  the 
glare  lay  so  dazzling  in  the  wake,  that  David 
could  not  be  sure ;  but  it  seemed,  for  a  glimpse, 
as  though  the  figure  of  the  escaping  steerage 
passenger,  who  cowered  in  the  stern-sheets,  bore 
on  brown  shoulders  a  matted  shock  of  yellow 
hair. 

David  could  do  nothing  but  strain  his  eyes. 
Blurred  by  sun  and  water,  that  head  was  almost 
like  the  head  of  the  tattooed  savage  in  the  banca. 
The  resemblance  brought  with  it  some  sharp 
perplexity  even  more  elusive  —  some  vague  and 
obstinate  question,  as  though  the  sight  had  re 
called,  to  the  very  brink  of  memory,  something 
vastly  more  important.  The  tambangan  drew 
steadily  away  toward  the  low,  bilious-green  shore 
of  Grisseh  marshes. 

The  Dutch  doctor,  a  fat,  red-bearded  little 
busybody,  left  him  no  time  for  speculation ;  and 
as  soon  as  he  had  landed  and  was  driving  in  a 
kosong  past  the  line  of  gaudy  Madura  praus,  — 


60  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

which,  with  their  carved  and  blazoned  sterns, 
perennially  brighten  the  mud  and  heat  of  the  Kali 
Mas,  —  he  had  a  far  more  absorbing  puzzle  to 
consider. 

The  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand  contained,  in 
Pryce's  neat  memorandum,  his  two  blind  alterna 
tives  :  — 

Miss  Mary  Arnot : 
Miss  Mary  Naves : 
Were  t'other  dear  charmer  away! 

"That  may  be  the  Welsh  sense  of  humor," 
thought  David  sourly.  "  But  it 's  no  joke." 

A  furious  clatter  of  hoofs,  close  behind,  the 
pistol-shot  snapping  of  a  whip,  and  guttural  cries 
of  "Hrri,hrri!"  made  him  turn  his  head,  in  time 
to  see  a  pair  of  galloping  ponies  dash  round  the 
corner  of  the  Grisseh  road.  On  the  seat  of  a  ko- 
song,  tilted  almost  to  capsize,  sat  his  friend  Ro- 
sario.  The  clatter  and  rumble  died  away  among 
the  marshes. 

Before  nightfall,  David  had  eviscerated  the 
register  of  every  known  hotel,  Simpang,  Wijn- 
veldt,  Embong-Malang ;  but  on  no  page  could  he 
find  either  Mary  Arnot  or  Mary  Naves.  Long 
after  dark  he  was  still  driving  aimlessly  through 
unknown  streets,  without  dinner  and  without 
hope. 

At  last  it  became  necessary  to  eat,  in  spite  of 
disappointment. 


MARY:  IN  THE   PLAINS  61 

"Makan"  he  called  to  the  driver.  "  Makan, 
chupput!" 

"Bai,  Tuan."  The  taciturn  Malay  wrenched 
back  his  ponies'  heads,  and  stopped  under  a  gut 
tering  lantern  which  projected  from  a  wall.  The 
faint  light,  shifting  on  a  surface  of  mouldy  plaster, 
revealed  in  garish  red  and  blue,  the  letters  — 
"Roemah  Makan." 

The  face  of  this  anonymous  hotel  was  so  forbid 
ding,  the  vaulted  way  which  led  within  so  damp 
and  malodorous,  that  David  began  to  suspect  the 
driver's  judgment.  In  a  dingy  little  office,  a  fat 
Eurasian,  young  and  supercilious,  sat  beside  a 
lamp  and  mopped  his  face. 

"Dinner  is  over,"  he  announced  languidly, 
eying  David  with  extreme  weariness. 

Content  with  this  news,  David  was  turning 
away,  when  his  glance  fell  on  a  small  packet 
beside  the  lamp.  The  sprawling  superscription 
leaped  out  to  startle  him :  — 

"Miss  Mary  Naves,  Kamer  7." 

He  caught  up  the  packet  with  a  pounce  that 
woke  the  nodding  half-breed. 

"Is  this  young  lady  in?" 

The  mild  Eurasian  eyes  slowly  brightened  to 
the  situation. 

"Oh,  yes,"  was  the  answer.  "Will  you  take 
her  that  ?  I  forgot.  It  came  from  the  shop  this 


noon.'* 


62  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

Extolling  his  luck,  David  passed  quickly  into 
the  stifling  little  courtyard,  a  hollow  square  of  dark 
verandas,  where  a  tiny  jungle  of  trees  crowded 
and  pressed  in  a  still  darker  night.  From  the 
door  of  room  seven,  however,  streamed  a  faint 
light  into  which  jutted  one  corner  of  a  table, 
the  back  of  a  chair,  and  in  that  chair  the  head 
and  shoulders  of  a  woman. 

David  stepped  forward  briskly,  his  feet  echo 
ing  on  the  cool,  wet  stones  of  the  veranda  floor. 
His  pulse,  it  seemed  to  him,  made  more  noise  in 
the  sweltering  court. 

"I've  found  her,"  he  told  himself ;  and  already 
a  wild  plan  had  crossed  his  mind  to  rescue  her 
from  these  unworthy  surroundings.  Seeing  only 
a  gleam  of  yellow  hair  in  the  lamplight,  he  raised 
his  helmet  and  put  his  question. 

"Sure,  that's  my  name,"  replied  a  ready  and 
all  too  affable  voice.  The  yellow  head  rose  far 
ther  into  the  light,  taking  on  a  sudden,  frouzled, 
meretricious  splendor,  in  the  same  instant  that 
a  strong  young  arm,  draped  in  a  kimono  of 
vivid  scarlet,  lazily  withdrew  from  covering  a 
yawn.  "I'm  the  Miss  Naves,  with  the  movin' 
picture  show.  What  you  got  for  me  ?  Say,  a  little 
ee-lectricity  would  n't  do  this  hotel  no  harm, 
what?" 

For  a  moment  David  stood  like  an  ox.  By 
some  vacuity,  he  had  thought  that  both  Marys, 


MARY:  IN  THE  PLAINS  63 

the  right  and  the  wrong,  must  be  the  top  of  ad 
miration,  being  the  twins  of  circumstance. 

"I  —  I  intended — "  He  forgot,  and  then, 
remembering,  laid  the  packet  on  her  table.  "  This 
came  from  the  stores,  you  know  — " 

The  young  arm  in  the  scarlet  sleeve  reached 
out  vigorously. 

"The  stores !  Why  did  n't  you  say  so  ?"  Her 
voice  rose,  domineering.  "I  thought  you  was 
some  gentleman  to  see  me.  Took  your  time 
bringing  it!" 

David  went  softly  back  along  the  veranda,  a 
wiser  man,  grinning  in  the  dark. 

Within  ten  paces,  however,  he  had  wheeled 
and  was  running  back ;  for  a  shrill  cry,  of  preter 
natural  volume,  rang  in  the  stuffy  courtyard  with 
overtones  of  such  terror  as  might  pierce  an  Ama 
zon. 

It  was  strange  to  find  so  robust  a  young  woman, 
with  limbs  so  long,  hair  so  abnormally  bright,  and 
drapery  so  red,  lying  white  and  senseless  on  the 
matting  in  her  room ;  significant  to  discover  that 
the  poor  parcel  from  the  stores  was  missing; 
but  beyond  all  expectation,  to  see,  stamped  on 
the  margin  of  dry  cement  between  matting  and 
threshold,  dark  with  moisture  from  the  newly- 
washed  veranda,  the  print  of  a  twisted  foot,  on 
which  the  great  toe  flared  at  right  angles. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MARY:  IN  THE  HILLS 

Miss  NAVES  bad  pitched  her  one  outcry  so  effec 
tively  that  no  second  was  needed.  Footsteps, 
both  shod  and  bare,  came  swiftly  down  the  ver 
anda,  and  into  the  room  bounded  three  Javanese 
boys,  the  oily  Eurasian,  and  the  kosong  driver. 
The  Eurasian,  fixing  David  with  a  terrified  stare, 
hastily  took  a  position  behind  the  natives,  and 
began  to  mumble  something  about  an  arrest. 

"  Here !"  David  snapped  his  fingers  under  the 
man's  nose.  "  Catch  hold,  and  help  me  with  her, 
you  Kubu!  And  you  men,"  he  cried,  in  the  ver 
nacular,  "go  hunt  among  the  trees,  for  anybody 
hiding!" 

So,  with  all  the  appearances  against  him,  the 
white  man  took  charge  of  that  curious  scene. 
The  long  young  woman  in  the  scarlet  robe  was 
no  easy  armful,  and  the  sputtering  Eurasian  was 
only  in  the  way;  but  at  last  David  contrived  to 
replace  her  in  the  veranda  chair. 

"I  think,  I  think,"  stuttered  the  clerk,  "we 
shall  give  her  some  brandy,  sir  ?  No,  sir  ?  None, 
sir,  of  course !  Excuse  me,  sir !" 


I 


f 


A  SHRILL  CRY  OF  PRETERNATURAL  VOLUME 


MARY:  IN  THE   HILLS  65 

The  drooping  head,  all  too  bright  and  fair, 
weakly  roused  for  a  moment,  and  as  weakly  sank. 

"Ah !"  sighed  Miss  Naves,  and  reaching  out  a 
strong  young  arm,  tenderly  enfolded  the  nearest 
neck,  which  happened  to  be  David's.  "A-a-h! 
What  was  it?" 

"The  lady  is  better,"  said  the  sapient  clerk. 

"Get  out !"  cried  David  savagely,  wriggling  to 
free  his  head  from  that  chancery  of  red  silk. 

A  slow  grin  overspread  the  melancholy  Eura 
sian  features. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  intrude,  sir." 

The  fat  creature  retired  with  the  bow  of  a 
Grandison. 

By  her  clasp,  the  lady  was  growing  better  and 
better. 

"  Let  go,  please,"  begged  the  captive.  "  Please." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  looked  at  him  in  gradual 
comprehension  and  offense,  then  sat  bolt  upright, 
suddenly  and  precisely. 

"Well,  I  should  say!"  she  cried,  with  honest 
indignation.  "  We  ain't  such  friends  as  all  that !" 
She  sank  back  again,  feebly.  "  Oh,  crickey,  I  had 
a  nawful  turn!" 

The  three  Javanese  boys  and  the  kosong  driver 
were  beating  the  shrubbery  to  no  purpose.  They 
skipped  about  and  dodged  among  the  heavy 
leaves  —  lithe,  white-coated  figures,  red-sashed, 
with  their  pert  little  turbans,  of  mottled  colors, 


66  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

tied  up  behind  in  knots  like  rabbit-ears.  Their 
hunt  served  only  to  wake  a  tree-lizard,  who  hic 
coughed  loudly  from  the  upper  branches.  At  the 
sudden,  broken  sound,  the  prostrate  Amazon 
started  in  her  chair. 

"My  nerves,"  she  said  plaintively,  "my  nerves 
are  all  of  a  jump.  I  sing,  you  know,  so  it's  tem- 
p'rament ;  but  then,  anyhow,  I  had  a  nawful  turn ! " 

"What  was  it?"  David  felt  that  his  tone  could 
never  be  too  kind.  "What  frightened  you  ?" 

To  his  bitter  disappointment,  Miss  Naves 
shook  her  head,  and  screwing  her  eyes  tight  shut, 
enjoyed  another  crisis  of  temperament. 

"O-o-h  my!"  She  trembled,  and  shrank  to 
gether  as  far  as  her  generous  frame  allowed. 
"  O-o-h,  a  nawful  face,  that  was  all !  And  a  big 
head  in  a  red  cloth.  I  don'  know,  but  seemed  like 
it  was  that.  The  parcel  you  brought,  I  was  tak 
ing  it  in  to  open  where  I  could  look  —  and  some 
body  grabbed,  and  — and  that's  all  I  waited  to 
see!" 

David  glanced  at  the  margin  of  cement  in  the 
doorway.  Already  it  was  dry:  the  print  of  the 
twisted  foot  had  vanished. 

"Nothing  more?"  he  coaxed. 

"More?"  snapped  the  convalescent,  opening 
her  eyes  in  wrath.  "  No ;  it  was  enough,  /  tell  you ! 
Things  like  that,  jumping  into  a  lady's  room! 
And  snatching  parcels !  Ain't  they  found  him  ?" 


MARY:  IN  THE   HILLS  67 

The  armed  coachman  and  the  three  boys  in 
mottled  turbans  had  come  to  the  veranda  edge. 

"There  is  not,  my  lord,"  they  reported,  with 
salaam.  Whoever  had  been  there  must  have  fled 
behind  the  bathhouse  and  along  the  canal.  "  There 
is  not,  my  lord." 

;<Your  parcel  's  gone  for  good,  I  fear,"  said 
David.  "Was  it  valuable  ?" 

The  lady  sniffed,  and  drew  the  scarlet  folds 
about  her  with  the  dignity  of  a  Roman  matron. 

"You  ought  to  know,"  she  retorted  coldly.  "I 
bought  it  in  your  shop.  A  comb,  it  was,  that  I 
paid  good  money  for,  too.  I  never  saw  but  one 
like  it,  aboard  ship  once ;  and  this  o'  yours  was 
only  imitation." 

David  drove  his  fist  into  his  palm. 

"Of  course!"  he  cried.  "Aboard  ship,  and  I 
never  thought !  Tell  me.  Tell  me,  Miss  Naves, 
and  I'll  get  you  the  most  glorious  comb  in  Sou- 
rabaya.  Where  was  she  going  —  I  mean  Miss 
Arnot?" 

The  young  giantess  raised  the  excessive  glory 
of  her  head,  opened  her  mouth,  and  for  once  in 
her  career  found  no  word  ready. 

'You  give  me  the  creeps,  young  fellow,"  she 
declared  at  last.  Her  hard  eyes,  quick  with  calcu 
lation,  made  nothing  out  of  him.  "How  could 
you  tell  't  was  Miss  Arnot's  comb  I  liked  ?  And 
you  fetching  parcels  ?  You  don't  know  her!" 


68  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

David,  for  an  instant,  wavered  before  this 
home  truth. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  lamely,  "I  do  know  her 
—  a  little." 

"And  like  her,  too!"  The  woman's  rejoinder 
pounced,  like  a  hawk,  on  his  confusion.  "Oh, 
you  men !  Could  tell  by  the  way  you  spoke.  See 
here."  Miss  Naves  rolled  out  of  her  chair,  and, 
shining  in  her  scarlet  kimono,  rose  to  the  height 
and  posture  of  an  angry  prophetess.  Her  voice 
became  strident.  "  Look  here,  do  you  know  what 
that  girl  did  to  me  ?  Well,  out  o'  the  whole  lot 
aboard  ship,  she  treated  me  like  a  human  being ! 
That's  what  she  did.  You!  D'ye  think  she's 
your  kind  ?  She  —  she  's  a  wonder !" 

David  waited  for  a  lull. 

"Should  you  like,"  he  put  in  humbly,  "to  do 
her  a  favor?" 

The  stormy  sibyl  reared  higher  at  so  mild  a 
question. 

"  Favor  ?  I  'd  give  her  this  off  my  back ! "  And 
for  one  moment  of  perilous  realism,  Miss  Naves 
wrenched  at  her  fiery  robe.  Then,  desisting,  she 
looked  again,  more  keenly,  straight  into  David's 
eyes,  and  heard  him  out,  with  the  fixity  of  one 
who  would  not  miss  a  particle. 

"Message!"  She  tossed  her  head,  and  gave 
a  short,  hard  laugh.  "  Important  message,  eh  ? 
Mind  you,  I  've  seen  Miss  Arnot,  and  so  I  know 


MARY:  IN  THE   HILLS  69 

your  feelings !  And  you  'd  go  give  her  a  message 
from  another  man,  and  him  fond  of  her,  too!" 

She  laughed,  this  time  bitterly. 

"You're  a  fool.  That's  plain."  Under  the  red 
silk  she  heaved  her  broad  shoulders ;  then,  fling 
ing  out  her  hands  in  contempt,  she  turned,  lifted 
a  smelling-bottle,  sniffed,  and  put  it  down  in 
disgust.  "Being  square  —  there's  nothing  to  it. 
But  you  're  the  sort  o'  fool,  I  s'pose,  that  girl 
would  think  was  .  .  .  Anyhow,  she  's  gone  to 
Arvana,  over  middle- Java  way,  and  —  and  I 
wish  you  luck!" 

Hunger  did  not  signify  that  evening,  as  David, 
smoking  black  Sumatra  tobacco  with  infinite  rel 
ish,  leaned  back  on  the  dirty  leather  of  the  kosong 
and  watched,  far  overhead,  the  bright  host  of 
tropic  stars.  Arvana :  there,  by  this  time  to-mor 
row  night,  he  would  see,  alive  and  real,  the  face 
in  the  locket,  the  face  out  of  his  dreams  that  had 
looked  down  at  him  —  so  many  miles  away  — 
from  the  stern  of  a  departing  ship.  Arvana ;  Mary 
Arnot :  two  certainties  now  —  and  he  had  slashed 
through  to  them  as  through  a  jungle  of  guesswork 
and  cross-purpose  and  incongruity.  Arvana; 
Mary  Arnot ;  to-morrow :  he  stretched  out  his  legs, 
threw  back  his  head,  and  blew  a  cloud  of  tobacco 
smoke  at  the  stars,  as  he  rolled  through  the  dark 
streets  in  lordly  revel. 

A  noise,  behind  the  rattle  of  his  kosong,  gradu- 


70  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

ally  claimed  attention.  Another  rattle,  and  a  con 
flicting  patter  of  ponies'  hoofs,  followed  steadily 
in  his  wake,  turning  the  same  corners,  at  the 
same  pace,  without  gaining  or  losing  ground. 

David  turned  to  peer  over  the  back  of  his  car 
riage.  Behind,  the  darkness  was  complete. 

"No  lamps  there."  Leaning  forward  and 
thrusting,  he  brought  the  point  of  his  rattan  be 
tween  the  driver's  shoulder-blades.  The  Malay 
pulled  up  his  ponies  in  their  tracks. 

The  incoordinate  clatter  stopped  instantly,  with 
a  creak  and  jingle  of  straining  harness. 

"No  mistake,"  thought  David.  "That  settles 
it." 

He  stood  up,  and  leaning  against  the  forward 
seat,  gave  his  orders  in  a  whisper. 

"Bai,  Tuan."  The  driver's  mottled  turban 
nodded;  his  long  gilt  whip  swung  in  the  faint 
lamplight ;  and  off  the  ponies  bounded,  cutting  a 
corner  perilously,  to  scamper  down  into  the  full 
radiance  of  the  Chinese  "camp."  Half-way 
through  the  street,  with  a  jerk  and  a  plunge  as 
though  following  a  polo-ball,  the  ready  little 
beasts  tore  a  neat  half-circle.  A  quick  test  of 
horseflesh  and  horsemanship,  it  was  well-timed ; 
for  in  the  full  glare  from  a  joss-house  door  — 
carved,  gilded,  and  ghastly  with  acetylene  lamps 
—  there  swung  into  brilliant  view  the  pursuing 
Jcosong,  all  unprepared  for  such  doubling,  and 


MARY:  IN  THE   HILLS  71 

still  at  the  gallop.  As  it  flashed  by,  David  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  tugging  driver  —  a  Javanese, 
who  grinned  sourly,  like  a  humorous  man  caught 
napping ;  of  a  Sikh  watchman  on  the  box,  in  faded 
khaki,  head  bound  with  scarlet  turban;  and  — 
on  the  seat  behind  —  of  Mr.  Rosario,  that  lover 
of  books  and  cricket,  his  face  contorted  with 
fiery  expostulation  and  chagrin. 

The  whole  disclosure,  vivid  and  fleeting, 
passed  to  the  hurry  of  hoofbeats  into  the  night. 

David's  man  pointed  after  with  his  long, 
golden  whip :  — 

"Desini,  Tuan?" 

"Tida."  David  shook  his  head.  " Simpang." 
And  as  the  ponies  trotted  willingly  for  home  and 
stables,  he  sat  with  chin  on  breast,  vexed  and 
wondering. 

Not  till  dusk  of  the  next  day,  when  the  slow, 
fat  little  Dutch  train  came  puffing  into  a  bare  sta 
tion  on  the  Arvana  line,  did  the  real  upshot  of 
that  night's  adventure  become  clear.  The  jour 
ney  had  given  David  plenty  of  time  for  thought. 
Whoever  had  stamped  the  footprint  in  Miss 
Naves's  chamber,  had  snatched  the  packet  from 
her  hand  not  only  in  great  haste  and  greed,  but  by 
mistake.  "  It  was  mine  they  wanted,"  David  told 
himself,  patting  the  breast  of  his  tunic.  Inside, 
he  felt  the  corners  of  that  small  oblong  riddle : 
it  lay  there  safe  enough,  —  safer,  indeed,  than 


72  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

when  first  wrapped  and  tied  by  the  young  stran 
ger  in  his  island  hut.  Yet  now,  as  the  convex 
outline  of  the  silver  locket  also  met  his  fingers 
through  the  cloth,  he  received  a  further  enlight 
enment. 

"This  won't  do,"  he  reflected,  while  he 
climbed  out  into  the  press  of  sweaty  coolies  clam 
oring  for  luggage.  "It  won't  do,  to  give  these 
things  to  her." 

He  paused,  blocking  traffic. 

"I  must  go  ahead.  She  may  know  better.  I 
must  see  her,  anyway."  And  the  knowledge  that 
this  last  was  not  merely  possible,  but  near  at 
hand,  sent  his  thoughts  flying  forward  once  more. 

His  carriage  soon  left  the  little  town  far  be 
neath  in  the  dusk. 

Blood-red  pools,  penciled  in  clusters  of  sharp, 
black,  tiny  strokes  where  young  rice-blades  stood 
bundled,  now  faded  rapidly  in  the  tropic  night, 
leaped  out  for  a  moment  as  glowing  indigo,  and 
were  gone.  His  groom,  a  turbaned  silhouette 
perched  on  a  bundle  of  bristling  fodder,  sang  and 
chirruped,  urging  the  ponies  up  the  westward 
slope  to  where  the  keen  edge  of  volcanoes  scal 
loped  the  last  brightness  in  the  sky,  like  a  range 
of  Fujiyamas  cut  from  sheet-iron.  Up  and  up 
wound  the  road,  till  among  the  obscure  texture 
o.f  bamboos  and  lowlier  growth,  shafts  of  the 
tall  rasamala  ran  their  black  lances  toward  the 


MARY:  IN  THE   HILLS  73 

stars.  An  ape  went  rustling  through  the  treetops, 
racing  the  carriage  for  a  time,  before  he  swung 
down  and  over,  hundreds  of  feet,  into  the  ravine 
below,  to  chatter  like  some  shrill  woman  im 
parting  nonsense  eagerly.  Then  followed  a  great 
stillness,  filled  with  the  heavy  night-perfume  of 
flowers. 

Suddenly,  round  a  sharp  turn,  where  the  road 
ran  more  level  on  the  broad  mountain  shoulder, 
lamps  twinkled  through  the  trees. 

"There  it  is!"  thought  David;  and  light  and 
thought  were  joyful  to  him.  "Now  then!  —  I'll 
walk." 

He  called  to  the  driver,  leaped  out  into  the 
road,  and  with  a  curt  order  sent  the  carriage  rat 
tling  on  ahead ;  for  with  the  settlement  so  near  in 
view  he  found  himself  all  flushed,  giddy,  devoid 
of  plan  and  of  words,  in  this  whirl  of  close  antici 
pation. 

The  road  rose  gently  underfoot,  hemmed  in  on 
one  side  by  tops  of  liquid-amber  trees  shooting 
up  from  below  an  unseen  precipice,  and  on  the 
other  by  a  long,  white  wall  of  mountain  lilies,  tall 
and  pale  in  the  dusk  as  flowers  of  Botticelli. 
Down  the  defile,  as  he  advanced,  pattered  a  slow 
company  of  dark  shapes  bent  under  burdens  of 
strange  bulk  and  outline  —  musicians  of  the 
gamelan,  as  David  guessed,  returning  from  some 
marriage-feast  in  the  hills.  Calling  now  and  then 


74  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

to  each  other  in  low  voices  of  liquid  cadence,  they 
passed  on  below,  leaving  the  road  empty  as  a 
hermit's  glen. 

Down  this  came,  presently,  a  murmur  of  sing 
ing,  to  the  tinkle  of  some  wayside  music.  And 
then,  round  another  turn  of  the  road,  where  the 
lights  shone  in  a  distant  row  from  a  long,  white 
veranda,  David  came  upon  a  little  group  under 
a  tree. 

A  shriveled  man,  cowering  on  the  ground, 
plucked  the  strings  of  his  canoe-shaped  harp,  and 
sang  in  a  plaintive  voice,  hushed  and  oppressed 
as  though  by  the  fear  of  darkness,  and  age,  and 
mystery.  Beyond  the  harper,  on  a  rude  bench, 
sat  an  indistinct  figure  in  white,  with  another 
standing  alongside. 

By  the  heavy  fragrance  of  melati  blossom, 
these,  thought  David,  must  be  native  women. 
He  waited  till  the  murmur  of  song  had  ceased, 
and  the  harper  taken  his  hand  from  the  strings. 

Then,  in  their  own  tongue,  he  spoke  them  fair, 
as  became  a  people  of  great  courtesy.  It  was  still 
many  steps  to  the  lighted  veranda.  Why,  as  he 
now  snatched  at  this  delay,  should  his  heart  jump 
heavy  and  rapid,  as  though  he  already  stood  at 
the  end  of  his  search,  in  the  very  presence  ? 

The  harper  rose,  and  with  a  stealthy  deference 
withdrew  his  little  boat  of  music  from  the  speak 
er's  way.  The  light  touched  for  an  instant  a  snowy 


MARY:  IN  THE   HILLS  75 

garland  about  his  neck ;  it  was  he,  and  not  a  native 
woman,  who  wore  the  melati  flowers. 

At  the  same  time  the  white  figure  rose  from  the 
bench. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  hotel,"  was  the  answer. 
"And  you  did  not  disturb  our  music." 

Off  came  David's  helmet.  The  voice,  clear 
and  level,  brave  and  friendly,  was  the  voice  that 
he  had  waited  for  and  known  in  fancy.  Darkness, 
the  thick  pool  of  night  under  the  trees,  could  no 
longer  hide  her  face.  Not  alone  by  feeble  sight, 
but  as  if  by  all  his  senses  combined  and  rejoicing, 
he  knew  it  was  the  face  in  the  silver  locket. 

"I  have  come,"  he  said,  —  without  need  to 
halt  or  stammer,  for,  by  inspiration,  he  knew 
plain  honesty  to  be  both  guide  and  warrant,  now 
and  always,  —  "  I  have  come  a  long  way  to  speak 
with  you." 


CHAPTER  VII 

KUBOYONG 

"  To  speak  with  me  ? ' '  The  voice,  though  troubled, 
was  quiet  and  friendly.  "Then,  shall  we  walk 
toward  the  house,  meanwhile?" 

Afterward  he  recalled  how,  as  her  white  figure 
moved  out  of  leafy  shadow,  the  veranda  lights, 
that  streamed  athwart  the  glossy  tops  of  little  gar 
den  shrubs,  evoked  a  dusky  radiance  from  her 
hair ;  and  how,  behind  them  both,  her  native  girl 
came,  tall  and  lithe  in  a  white  kabaia,  like  a  slave 
contentedly  following  some  gentle  princess.  Yet 
now,  as  they  two  first  walked  together,  David 
saw  nothing  but  her  face  beside  him,  her  head  and 
shoulders  above  the  shrubbery,  as  though  she  ad 
vanced  through  a  low  mist,  or  made  a  luminous 
circle  in  the  gloom  by  the  mere  light  of  her  coun 
tenance.  The  silver  locket,  holding  the  truth,  had 
not  held  that  light,  and  life,  and  magical  reality. 

"I  can  guess,"  she  added;  and  this  time  her 
voice  trembled.  Speaking,  she  glanced  up  at  him, 
with  eyes  large,  quiet,  and  yet  uncertain,  as 
though  ready  for  the  best  tidings  or  the  worst.  "  I 
can  guess,  for  there's  only  one  subject  a  stranger 


KUBOYONG  77 

could  come  to  tell  me  about.  Gerald  sent  you  ? 
You  are  a  friend  of  his  ?  Tell  me,  where  is  he  ? 
How  can  I  get  to  him  ?  " 

They  halted  in  the  path,  eying  each  other  si 
lently  for  a  moment.  David  was  prepared  to  find 
her  beautiful,  but  not  so  radiant  and  regnant,  all 
in  plain  white,  yet  crowned  with  a  dusky  splen 
dor  of  shining  hair.  He  was  prepared  to  know 
and  to  be  known,  but  not  to  have  her  go  direct 
to  the  heart  of  his  errand.  More  than  all,  he  was 
prepared  to  pity  her ;  but  not  to  feel  this  great 
wave  of  pity  that  swept  away  all  his  foolish,  un 
admitted  hopes,  to  leave  him  heartily  ashamed. 
Disloyal  to  the  other  man,  he  had  been  disloyal 
to  her ;  now  let  him  serve  honestly,  with  his  best 
service. 

"No,"  he  began,  "I  was  not  sent,  exactly. 
Your  —  he  and  I  could  n't  be  called  friends,  but 
—  he  —  you  see  — " 

Her  eyes,  dilated  in  the  obscure  light,  looked 
straight  through  his  confusion.  Her  face  — 
quickened  with  the  clear  spirit  which  had  met 
his,  in  the  glare  of  that  strange  morning  aboard 
the  banco,  —  now  grew  slightly  pale. 

"Come,  tell  me  true."  She  faced  him  with 
courage.  "  Is  he  still  —  Speak  out ;  be  frank 
with  me ;  for  I ' ve  looked  everywhere,  asked  every 
body  ;  and  after  failing  here,  again,  coming  here 
on  another  false  hope  —  why,  the  best  thing  is 


78  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

the  truth.  Tell  me,  as  though  you  were  his  friend 
—  and  mine." 

By  sudden  consent,  they  walked  on  together 
through  the  glistening  alley  of  leaves.  The  mourn 
ful,  ululating  song  of  a  mountaineer  floated  to 
them  through  the  darkness,  close  at  hand,  from 
a  neighboring  spur  across  deep  gulfs.  Dull  and 
heavy,  a  hollow  log,  smitten  in  some  village  far 
below,  boomed  out  the  hour  in  seven  strokes. 

The  veranda  lay  desolate  in  all  its  whitewash, 
except  that  under  the  farthest  lamps  three  fat 
men  in  pajamas,  and  a  lady  with  bare  ankles,  sat 
playing  bridge  in  Dutch. 

The  girl  paused,  with  one  foot  on  the  steps. 

"Oh,  please!"  she  begged. 

"I  have  something  of  his  to  give  you,"  David 
slowly  replied.  "One  thing  must  wait  till  later, 
but  this  other  — "  He  fumbled  inside  his  tunic, 
and  drew  forth  the  silver  locket,  which  he  held 
out,  as  one  might  surrender  a  talisman.  "I 
brought  you  this  —  from  him." 

The  girl  put  one  hand  quickly  against  a  pillar. 
Her  eyes  were  not  dark,  but  very  blue,  as  David 
saw  before  he  turned  his  own  aside  and  waited. 

"His  locket!"  she  whispered,  with  a  little  sob 
that  left  David  more  shaken  than  if  her  finger-tips, 
on  the  pillar,  had  been  the  hand  of  Samson.  "  He 
never  would  have  given  —  tell  me,  were  you  with 
him,  when  —  at  the  time  ?" 


KUBOYONG  79 

"I  was,"  said  David,  staring  hard  at  a  clump 
of  white  lilies  which  he  did  not  see. 

"Was  it  —  is  it  a  place  where  I  could  go  ?" 

David  shook  his  head. 

"An  island  — very  far  from  here." 

The  song  of  the  mountaineer,  descending  in  the 
night  across  the  gulf,  came  to  them  in  snatches, 
like  a  hopeless  call.  As  though  listening,  the  girl 
turned  her  face  away. 

"I'm  glad  you  were  there,"  she  said,  contend 
ing  for  the  mastery  of  her  voice.  "Very,  very 
glad.  It  brings  him  nearer,  somehow  —  and  then 
—  there's  something  in  your  face  —  something 
that 's  good  to  see  there,  and  makes  me  glad  he 
had  you  then." 

David,  silent  and  guilty,  felt  a  return  of  the  old 
envy.  That  other  man,  in  his  grave,  possessed 
quietly  forever  what  all  the  living  could  not  win 
by  all  their  struggles.  Her  grief  was  very  calm,  but 
of  the  calmness  which  outwears  time  and  chance. 

The  wailing  singer  in  the  dark  had  passed  be 
low  and  out  of  earshot,  round  some  jutting  edge, 
before  she  spoke  again. 

"I  must  go  in."  Her  lips  were  trembling,  as 
she  turned  once  more  to  David.  "For  a  while  — 
I  must  —  be  alone.  Later,  we  shall  talk."  She 
beckoned  to  the  slim  native  girl,  who  stood  pa 
tiently  beside  the  clump  of  lilies.  "  Oh,  and  you 
said —  there  was  something  else  of  his  for  me  ?" 


80  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

David  raised  his  hands  toward  the  breast  of  his 
tunic,  but  lowered  them,  with  a  vague  reluctance. 

"To-morrow,  please,  by  daylight."  He  fal 
tered,  then  found  his  excuse.  "It's  only  a  small 
packet.  Not  this  evening  ?  I  think  —  I  think  he 
would  rather  have  it  so." 

He  caught  from  brimming  eyes  a  swift,  unex 
pected  glance,  full  of  comprehension,  or  discov 
ery,  or  gratitude.  Above  him,  on  the  edge  of  the 
veranda,  she  paused  as  in  perplexity. 

"  To-morrow  ?  But  to-morrow  I  shall  be  leav 
ing."  She  spoke  wearily,  as  though  details  no 
longer  mattered.  "  The  train  starts  at  early  day 
light,  I  believe.  In  Batavia,  Mrs.  Hemmes  will 
be  looking  for  me.  And  you  see,  my  passage  is 
taken  for  Thursday." 

David  felt  a  trace  of  relief. 

"Then,"  said  he,  "if  I  may  come  to  Batavia? 
Before  your  ship  sails  — " 

The  well-known  face,  crowned  with  shining 
hair,  maintained  a  last  failing  show  of  courage. 

"You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  she  answered; 
then,  beckoning  the  servant  with  a  quick,  fierce 
motion:  "Come,  Chatra!" 

The  brown  girl,  simpering,  brushed  past  him 
on  the  steps.  Left  alone,  David  stood  looking 
out  upon  the  vast  night,  where,  alike  in  their 
blackness,  the  established  hills  and  the  down 
ward-pouring  clouds  cut  strange  gores  from  the 


KUBOYONG  81 

starry  substance  of  the  heavens.  Behind  him,  at 
their  cards,  the  players  held  a  sputtering  argu 
ment,  with  great  gusts  of  Batavian  laughter.  But 
without  caring  to  see  or  hear,  David  remained 
rapt  in  wonder.  The  shuttle  of  flying  chance  had 
woven  the  loose  thread  of  his  life,  for  once,  into 
serviceable  stuff.  He  had  fallen  overboard  at 
midnight,  had  seen  a  light  from  shore,  and  heard 
a  dog  bark.  The  poor  Amazon,  Mary  Naves, 
won  by  a  nod  and  a  smile  or  two,  had  overheard 
and  treasured,  for  a  few  days,  the  name  of  this 
station  in  the  hills.  And  here,  following  so  frail 
a  clue  of  accidents,  he  had  come  to  deal  the  heavi 
est  blow  to  the  last  person  in  the  world.  .  .  . 

"To  her."  Remembering  how  eagerly  he  had 
climbed  this  mountain  road,  he  could  have  groaned 
at  his  own  baseness.  "Well,"  he  ordered  himself 
severely,  "  you  look  after  her  till  Thursday.  Your 
best,  too." 

To  see  that  her  property  was  safe,  he  plucked 
out  of  his  tunic  and  scrutinized  in  the  bright  light 
of  the  veranda  her  small,  oblong  packet. 

The  three  words  might  have  been  written  yes 
terday  :  "  For  Miss  Mary  - 

"She  gets  you!"  was  his  scowling  apostrophe. 
"She  gets  you,  safe  and  sound,  aboard  ship,  and 
no  more  fooling!" 

Perhaps  it  was  the  stir  of  his  own  fancy ;  but 
as  he  slid  the  packet  home  he  seemed  to  hear  a 


82  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

rustle,  cut  short,  among  the  tall  stalks  of  the  lilies 
where  Chatra,  the  brown  maid- servant,  had 
lately  stood.  Beyond  doubt,  one  of  the  great  white 
chalices  was  bowing  drowsily. 

He  strode  over  and  thrust  his  rattan  through 
and  through  the  stalks,  like  a  rapier.  It  struck 
nothing;  and  on  the  farther  side  nothing  ap 
peared  but  solid  shadows,  flung  from  clump  to 
clump  of  mountain  greenery. 

"Humph!"  he  growled.  "Mooning  again! 
Nerves  —  old  woman's  trick!" 

A  card-player,  proud  of  his  English,  called 
jocosely :  — 

"Aha!   A  snake,  not?" 

"No,"  said  David  briefly;  "a  granny-not." 

"  Zo-zo ! ' '  The  Hollander  nodded  ponderously, 
well  pleased  with  so  technical  a  report. 

But  David  was  far  from  satisfied.  Dinner,  with 
its  dearth  of  talk,  and  heaping  abundance  of  rice, 
passed  dolefully  enough ;  the  evening  more  dole 
fully,  although  the  Dutch  gamesters,  who  had 
shod  themselves  for  the  dining-room,  unshod 
themselves  once  more  and  made  the  empty  ver 
anda  echo  with  their  jovial  argument.  Long 
before  they  were  quiet,  the  light  went  out  behind 
Miss  Arnot's  screen.  And  at  last,  alone,  and 
weary  of  the  long  wait  before  to-morrow's  journey, 
David  entered  his  bare  little  room  reluctantly. 

Reluctantly:  he  wondered  at  that,  as  all  the 


KUBOYONG  83 

evening  he  had  wondered  at  a  strange  uneasiness 
which  made  him  look  about  and  listen.  He  ex 
pected  nobody.  His  part  was  over;  except  the 
hardest  part,  that  would  begin  —  when  a  ship 
had  sailed  on  Thursday  —  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 
No ;  this,  to-night,  was  different — and  disquieting. 

Once  he  caught  himself  glancing,  through  his 
open  door,  at  the  lilies,  the  ambush  of  green 
leaves  and  white  chalices. 

"Nonsense!"  In  anger,  he  snatched  out  the 
dead  man's  packet,  and  tossed  it  on  the  table. 
With  it  fluttered  something  else;  the  page  from 
"  Punch  "  skimmed  half-way  across  the  floor,  un 
folded,  and  lay  flat  to  show  its  grisly  red  sur 
charge. 

"Oh,  will  you  ?"  David  swooped  after  it,  and 
in  a  sudden  passion  of  defiance  tore  the  paper  to 
shreds.  "There,  then!" 

He  flung  them  into  the  corner,  as  though  cancel 
ing  some  bond  or  breaking  a  sinister  compact. 
She,  at  least,  would  never  see  or  know  that  thing. 

But  the  vague  insecurity  came  flooding  back 
upon  him.  He  went  to  the  door,  even,  and  heark 
ened  to  the  stillness  of  the  great  mountains.  No 
thing  stirred  but  the  white  smoke  of  night-clouds 
beginning  to  roll  down  through  the  garden.  He 
remembered  listening  so  in  the  door  of  the  hut, 
that  night  among  the  palms. 

"What  rot!"    He   wheeled,  returned   grura- 


84  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

bling,  and  stolidly  prepared  to  sleep.  An  early 
start  to-morrow,  and  with  her  —  enough  to  think 
about ;  and  Thursday  —  that  also  was  enough, 
for  one  lifetime. 

To-night  there  was  no  thin  oval  of  silver  to  slip 
beneath  his  pillow,  with  the  packet ;  but  grasping 
this  last  treasure  the  more  tightly,  he  lay  down 
with  it,  fist  and  all,  under  his  head. 

From  tangled  dreams  he  woke  now  and  then  to 
ask  himself  in  drowsy,  blank  regret,  what  disaster 
was  impending.  "Oh,  yes,  Thursday."  And 
muttering,  he  slept  again. 

The  windows  glimmered  in  two  wide,  misty 
squares,  the  crowing  of  gamecocks  rose  thin  and 
scattering  from  villages  below  the  clouds,  when 
David  finally  woke  to  some  new  trouble.  Through 
the  ragged  fringe  and  outskirts  of  slumber,  there 
might  have  sounded  the  fragments  of  a  melody, 
—  as  though  first  a  woman' s  voice,  nearing  along 
the  veranda,  had  crooned  a  snatch  of  Kuboyong, 
"The  Captive" ;  and  then  a  man's  voice,  in  the 
distance,  had  caught  up  her  song  and  carried  it 
floating  down  the  mountain.  This,  if  real,  ceased 
abruptly.  Now  broad  awake,  David  listened. 
Outside,  in  the  veranda,  two  gentle  Malayan 
voices  interwove  in  a  subdued  and  timorous 
altercation. 

"  Cassi  bangan!"  pleaded  a  woman,  repeating 
the  words  like  a  petulant  refrain. 


KUBOYONG  85 

"Tida!"  The  "boy"  in  charge  of  David's 
room  denied  her,  mildly  and  scornfully.  "My 
lord  desires  not  our  knocking.  He  rises  at  four 
strokes.  It  has  not  struck  three.  Astaga!  Is 
there  no  decorum  ?" 

"My  lady,"  the  woman's  voice  meekly  per 
sisted,  "my  lady  wishes  ..." 

"  Oho !  That  beautiful  one  ?"  The  boy  surren 
dered,  with  a  quiet  laugh.  "  Give  knocking,  thou !" 

Light  knuckles  tapped  the  panel  of  the  door. 

"  Come !"  cried  David,  wondering  at  this  early 
visit. 

The  door  creaked  open,  to  admit  the  drowsy 
light  of  a  lamp,  which  the  barefoot  chamberlain 
bore  gravely  across  the  room,  and  set  upon  the 
table.  Still  gravely,  the  Javanese  took  from  a 
high  teak  wardrobe  his  master's  kimono,  and 
approached  the  bed. 

"  My  lord  will  hear  this  woman  ?"  he  ventured, 
bowing.  "She  desires  to  speak." 

The  messenger  had  hardly  withdrawn,  and 
David,  slipping  his  packet,  as  always,  into  the  pen 
dent  sleeve,  had  wound  but  half  the  sash  about 
his  blue  robe,  when  at  the  edge  of  the  lamplight 
stood  a  slim  white  figure,  tall  yet  drooping,  with 
the  languid  grace  of  a  young  bamboo.  Chatra, 
the  brown  maid,  raised  her  great  eyes  askance  at 
him,  smiled,  and  let  them  coyly  decline  under 
their  long  lashes. 


86  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

"What  do  you  want?"  began  David, — se 
verely,  for  this  vision  was  not  without  loveli 
ness. 

Once  more  the  girl  exercised  the  power  of  her 
dark  eyes,  fingered,  the  silver  Bantam  breast-pin 
on  her  kabaia,  lowered  her  sleek  head,  and 
smiled  with  furtive  content,  like  one  who  had 
found  favor  in  her  master's  sight. 

David  grinned  at  the  unseasonable  coquetry. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  remonstrated.  "You're  a  very 
pretty  girl,  and  all  that;  and  these  tiles  are  'cool 
and  refreshing,  especially  to  the  legs';  but,  my 
dear,  I  seldom  make  eyes  before  breakfast. 
What,"  he  repeated,  in  the  vernacular,  "do  you 
want?" 

Chatra,  simpering,  glanced  at  him,  then  away, 
then  downward  demurely. 

"My  lord,  forgive."  Her  voice  was  like  the 
sleepy  cooing  of  nutmeg  pigeons  in  a  deep  grove, 
at  dawn.  "  Forgive.  My  lady  sends  me  to  speak. 
My  mistress :  she  prepares  to  go.  She  desires  a 
gift." 

"  She  ?  —  a  gift  ?"  David  bent  on  the  speaker 
a  short,  incredulous  stare ;  but  remembering  the 
vagueness  of  her  race  and  tongue,  added  with 
lenience:  "What  gift?" 

The  long  graceful  limbs  twisted  bashfully  un 
der  their  white  stole.  Once  again  the  girl  looked 
up,  away,  and  down  fixedly  at  the  tiles.  Her  toes, 


KUBOYONG  87 

a  delicate  saffron  in  the  lamplight,  wriggled  as 
freely  as  a  babe's. 

"The  gift,"  she  answered,  with  embarrass 
ment;  "the  gift  —  of  a  packet.  My  lady  wishes 
—  to  see." 

David's  hand  started,  by  instinct,  toward  the 
hanging  sleeve  of  his  kimono.  He  watched  the 
maid.  No :  there  was  no  guile  in  such  conscious 
beauty. 

"  Is  it  an  order  ?"  He  flung  the  question  at  her 
sharply,  and  still  watched. 

"An  order,  Tuan."  Chatra  raised  her  eyes,  to 
hold  them  steady  and  liquid-bright,  as  though 
relieved  at  remembering  her  authority.  "An 
order.  My  lady  wishes  —  to  see." 

David,  slipping  in  his  hand,  brought  up  the 
packet  from  his  sleeve.  Though  now  smudged 
round  the  corners,  the  manila  paper  was  still 
neatly  folded,  still  firmly  tied  with  the  blue  and 
white  Japanese  twine,  and  still  bore  legibly  the 
superscription  written  in  the  hut,  and  never  com 
pleted —  "For  Miss  Mary ."  There  was  no 

reason  why  she  should  not  have  her  own.  Even 
if  she  sent  for  it  before  daybreak,  his  foolish  mis 
givings  might  not  delay  the  transfer. 

"  Wait."  Moving  to  the  door,  he  thrust  out  his 
head.  From  Miss  Arnot's  window,  a  broad  flange 
of  lamplight  splashed  across  the  tiles,  and  up  the 
white  pillars  of  the  veranda.  She  was  awake, 


88  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

then,  with  her  sorrow ;  awake,  and  making  ready 
for  her  journey,  which,  of  so  many  departures, 
began  without  hope.  "That,"  thought  David, 
"I  put  an  end  to." 

He  returned,  and  faced  the  smiling  Chatra. 

"Here  you  are,"  said  he. 

Strangely  unwilling,  he  held  forth  the  small 
oblong  packet  which  he  so  long  had  treasured. 

"Bai,  Tuan,"  murmured  the  brown  hand 
maiden  submissively.  Her  slender  fingers,  clos 
ing  round  the  precious  object,  shone  dusky  pink, 
like  the  cool  fingers  of  a  tropical  Aurora.  "  Bai, 
Tuan." 

She  bowed,  then  glided  out  across  his  thresh 
old,  her  slim  body  revealing  a  listless  grace  under 
the  white  robe,  her  heels  shining  polished  and 
fragile  as  egg-shells.  Without  a  sound,  she  van 
ished  as  though  melting  into  the  gray  mist  that 
swam  outside  the  doorway. 

David  remained  motionless,  ill  content. 

"  If  she  was  lying,  now  ?"  he  wondered.  Again, 
quickly,  he  crossed  his  room  and  peeped  into  the 
veranda. 

Chatra  had  spoken  faithfully,  however;  tall 
and  swaying,  her  figure  slid  like  a  phantom 
through  Miss  Arnot's  door.  In  her  hand,  a  final 
gleam  of  white  showed  the  packet  safely  on  its 
way. 

Inside  once  more,  David  finished  the  knot  of 


KUBOYONG  89 

(his  sash,  caught  up  a  towel,  and  shuffling  into 

!flat  sandals  of  bullock's  hide,  turned  mechani- 

!  cally  toward  his  bath.    Roused  for  the  day,  he 

j  had  no  further  business  with  sleep ;  so  that  when, 

of  a  sudden,  a  timid  sound  of  music  echoed  from 

the  veranda,  he  wheeled  in  a  sharp  and  troubled 

impulse  of  listening. 

Chatra's  voice,  half  lifted  in  song,  broke  off 
with  a  quaver.  Below  the  slope,  lingering  like  the 
clouds  among  the  dense  rattans,  a  wailing  tenor 
briefly  sustained  the  next  bars  of  the  ancient  song. 
No  question  of  dreaming  now,  thought  David ; 
two  persons  had  raised  the  lament  of  "The  Cap 
tive,"  Kuboyong,  in  tremulous  call  and  answer. 
Beyond   the   open   door,   beyond  a  gleaming 
j  pillar,  the  dim  white  chalice  of  a  lily  swung  and 
nodded  in  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    SHADOWS 

THE  lily  bowed  lightly,  as  though  on  a  stalk  re 
leased  from  pressure.  Before  its  motion  ceased, 
David  sprang  out,  and  losing  both  sandals  on  the 
veranda  steps,  plunged  across  the  driveway  and 
through  the  shrubbery. 

He  brought  up,  next  moment,  on  the  verge  of 
the  mountain-side.  Under  his  bare  feet,  a  narrow 
path  of  smooth-beaten  volcanic  dust  ran  wind 
ing,  horizontal,  between  dim  hedges  of  flowers. 
Overhanging  from  these,  to  his  right  in  the  dusk, 
another  white  bell  nodded,  lately  stirred  by  a 
passing  shoulder. 

Thus  guided,  he  ran  along  the  cool  and  fra 
grant  alley,  his  feet  wet  with  the  dew  of  night 
clouds.  Round  turn  after  turn  he  dodged,  follow 
ing  the  freakish  contour  of  the  volcano,  and  ex 
pecting,  at  each  sudden  change  of  direction,  to 
overtake  some  figure  flitting  ahead  through  the 
twilight.  But  always  the  path  wound  thread 
like  before  him,  empty  and  still. 

Through  the  leaves,  presently,  filtered  a  mur 
mur  of  low  voices,  the  whinny  of  a  horse,  the 
clack  of  a  hoof  on  stone,  and  the  dry  creak  from 


THE  SHADOWS  91 

straining  leather.  The  alley  turned  sharp  for  the 
last  time,  to  cast  David  forth  on  a  wider  level, 
cut  from  the  solid  mountain  shoulder,  —  a  tiny 
plateau  where   flaring   torchlight,  and  the  dull 
eyes  of  carriage  lanterns,  disclosed  a  busy  con- 
i  fusion  of  horses  and  grooms,  with  a  golden  back 
ground  of   bamboo    sheds.    Across  wild   Rem- 
i  brandt  darkness  and  glow,  a  mountaineer  led 
I  two  prancing  ponies;  his  lacquered  hat,  as  he 
harnessed  them  to  a  "mylord,"  shone  in  glossy 
vermilion. 

David  wheeled  about,  laughing  at  this  anti-cli 
max.  His  mystery,  the  song  of  the  two  voices,  the 
swaying  lilies,  had  brought  him  only  to  the  stables. 
"I  was  running,"  he  told  himself  with  a 
chuckle,  "I  was  running  after  some  Oriental 
love-story  in  the  servants'  quarters!" 

Brushing  through  the  flowery  corridor,  he  re 
turned,  slowly,  aware  of  the  morning  dampness, 
i  and  of  a  comical  chagrin.  Chatra  and  the  grooms, 
j  hereafter,  might  sing  back  and  forth  unmolested. 
Before  the  clump  of  lilies  where  his  pursuit  had 
begun,  he  halted  in  the  path,  to  study  the  dim 
prospect  stretching  far  below  in  steep  undulation. 
From  this  hanging  garden,  as  from  a  green 
parapet  or  jutting  prow  of  foliage,  he  could  see 
only  a  region  of  sky  and  darkness,  floored  with  a 
billowing  pallor  of  clouds  which  reflected  up 
ward,  faintly,  the  thin  but  increasing  light  of 


92  THE   TWISTED  FOOT 

dawn.    The  world  below  was  a  plain  of  milky 
vapor  that  shaded,  without  edge  or  limit,  into  no 
thing.   Yet  close  beneath  his  feet,  straight  down 
ward  as  in  a  pit,  there  glowed  a  sullen,  ragged 
light,  a  quaking  subterranean  flame.  He  craned 
over  the  verge.   Sheer  underneath,  by  the  stream 
ing  fire-points  of  bamboo  torches,  a  little  squad 
of  hill-men  were  toiling  like  ants  upon  the  road. 
Enormous  shadows  of  their  heads,  arms,  and 
shovels,  quick  intercrossing  legs  that  spindled  to 
a  hundred  yards  of  altitude,  went  rioting  in  sil 
houette  across  the  nearer  clouds  like  a  combat  of 
phantoms.    Unconscious  of  their  own  gigantic 
turmoil  over  the  landscape,  the  coolies  worked 
steadily,  mending  the  highway,  where  clustered 
their  flaming  fasces  of  bamboo  splinters.    The 
road  itself,  slanting  from  left  to  right,  showed 
like  a  fish-hook  of  orange  metal,  with  the  barb 
bent  downward  into  the  night.    Though  half  a 
mile  distant  by  carriage,  in  depth  the  squad  of 
laborers  stood  so  near  that  David  could  distin 
guish  their  flattened  profiles  against  the  torch 
light  in  the  thin  white  steam  of  mountain  exhala 
tions,  and  could  plainly  tell  one  man  from  an 
other  as  they  toiled  and  shifted.   It  was  the  more 
strange,  therefore,  to  see,  vastly  menacing  above 
and  beyond  their  preoccupation,  the  stilted  giants 
fighting  that  vague  war  of  shadows. 

Four  dull  booming  notes,  in  slow  succession, 


THE  SHADOWS  93 

rose  through  the  clouds  to  remind  him.  A  time- 
log,  beaten  in  one  of  those  drowned  villages  far 
below,  was  thumping  out  the  hour. 

"Time  to  get  ready,"  thought  the  young  man; 
and  turning  promptly,  he  rounded  the  clump  of 
lilies,  regained  his  bull-hide  sandals,  and  once 
more  headed  for  his  bath. 

He  had  long  stood  by  his  window,  dressed  and 
helmeted,  and  was  beginning  to  fidget  with  his 
watch,  when  along  the  drive  came  a  quick  patter 
of  little  hoofs  and  a  rumble  of  wheels.  The  coach 
man  in  the  vermilion  lacquer  hat,  perched  high 
on  a  vehicle  of  Brobdingnag,  pulled  up  his  Lilli 
putian  horses  at  the  door  of  Miss  Arnot's  room. 
Barefoot  servants  scurried  out  with  luggage; 
Chatra  came  swaying,  her  arms  full  of  wraps,  to 
stand  humbly  and  languidly  by  the  carriage  step ; 
then  quickly,  with  a  light,  firm  tread,  her  mistress 
followed  across  the  veranda,  and  entered  the 
leathern  gulf  of  the  "mylord." 

"Good-morning!"  The  girl,  answering  Da 
vid's  salute,  looked  up  with  a  pale,  sad,  yet 
friendly  countenance,  to  where  he  stood  beside 
a  pillar.  In  white  from  helmet  to  point  of  toe, 
she  wore  at  her  throat  some  black  thing,  which 
in  the  lamplight  seemed  hardly  darker  than  her 
eyes.  "Thank  you  for  sending  this." 

She  raised  from  her  lap,  and  let  fall  again,  the 
small  packet  tied  with  party-colored  twine. 


94  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

"I  can  never  thank  you  enough,"  she  contin 
ued,  "  for  the  offer  you  made  me  last  night.  We 
shall  meet  at  the  train  ?  I  've  a  great  many 
questions  to  ask  you." 

David,  replying,  found  his  confusion  divided. 
He  rejoiced  to  meet  her  brave  and  steady  look; 
but  still  more,  to  find  that  not  even  the  silver 
locket  contained  her  likeness  in  the  world. 

"Your  carriage  follows  mine?"  she  asked. 

"Directly."  As  he  answered,  David  suddenly 
discovered,  to  his  annoyance,  that  down  the  whole 
length  of  the  veranda  no  sign  appeared  of  his  own 
carriage.  "  My  villains  will  soon  be  along " 

Miss  Arnot  smiled  and  nodded.  The  coach 
man  wagged  his  conical  vermilion  headpiece, 
lifted  his  reins,  and  cracked  his  gilt  fishing-rod 
like  a  rifle.  " Hrri!  hrri!"  he  cried.  And  before 
the  servants  ended  their  salaams,  the  four  little 
Sandalwoods  jumped  forward  at  a  gallop. 

As  the  portly  carriage  swept  out  of  lamplight 
into  darkness,  a  nimble  figure  in  a  golden-bowl 
hat  and  mottled  sarong  hopped  up  into  the  rum 
ble.  It  was  only  Miss  Arnot' s  groom,  who  had 
stood  hidden,  apparently,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
leaders.  Yet  something  in  the  hurried  motion 
caught  David's  eye,  and  for  a  moment  left  him 
staring  after,  down  the  dark  incline. 

A  moment  only :  the  young  man  had  no  thought 
of  being  left  behind. 


THE   SHADOWS  95 

"Sidin!"  He  turned  on  his  boy.  "Sidin, 
where  are  my  horses  ?  Where  are  they  ?  Run 
quickly.  My  horses.  Fetch  them!" 

Like  a  deer  into  the  bush,  Sidin  jumped 
through  the  bank  of  lilies,  and  was  off  toward 
the  stables,  his  feet  slapping  hard  and  loud  along 
the  volcanic  path.  The  noise  of  the  carriage- 
wheels  had  died  away  before  his  brown  face  and 
white  jacket  again  burst  the  lilies  apart,  as  though 
he  were  riding  in  on  surf. 

"Master,  they  come,"  he  reported,  smiling. 
"Your  men  harness  them  rapidly.  There  was 
error.  One  of  those  foolish  grooms" — Sidin 
pointed  with  his  chin,  Malay  fashion,  after  the 
departing  equipage  —  "  they  carried  word  to  the 
stables,  saying  master  required  no  horses  to-day, 
but  to-morrow.  Now  the  horses  come.  All  is 
well." 

David  smote  the  pillar  with  his  hand. 

"Is  it,  though?"  he  asked  himself.  "I  doubt 
that!" 

Distressed,  irresolute,  he  paced  a  turn  or  so  in 
the  veranda.  All  seemed  far  from  well.  If  only 
he  could  be  sure. 

"Run  back,"  he  ordered  Sidin.  "Run  to  the 
stables.  Tell  the  men  to  hurry." 

The  brown  chamberlain  bounded  away,  fleet 
servant  to  a  generous  master.  The  glossy  leaves 
closed  over  him.  There  followed  a  long  delay, 


96  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

measured  by  louder  peals  of  crowing  from  the 
gamecocks  under  the  clouds,  and  once  by  a  dis 
tant  and  widespread  grumble,  or  snoring  thun 
der,  where  some  volcano  turned  over  in  its  sleep. 
From  black,  the  night  was  changing  to  intense 
and  sorrowful  blue.  Still  no  horses  came  for  him, 
while  every  moment  hers  carried  her  farther  down 
the  mountain. 

"And  she's  alone  in  the  carriage!"  To  this 
fact,  as  to  a  magnet,  his  thoughts  now  sprang  and 
cohered.  "Alone,  with  that  packet  in  her  lap. 
She  thanked  me  for  sending  it.  Why,  Chatra 
came  and  begged  for  it!  And  Chatra  sang,  and 
somebody  answered.  And  then  he  —  somebody 

—  ran  off  toward  the  stables.  And  then  my  horses 
were  not  wanted  to-day!" 

The  summary  was  all  too  plain.  At  its  con 
clusion,  David  found  himself  in  the  driveway, 
straining  his  eyesight  toward  where  the  stables 
lay  hidden  behind  dark  masses  of  rattan. 

"Why  don't  they  come?"  he  raged.  Minute 
after  minute  was  slipping  by,  with  no  sound  from 
the  stables.  By  this  time,  Miss  Arnot's  carriage 
would  have  doubled  the  first  great  spur,  and  be 
winding  back  on  the  next  level  below.  She  was 
getting  a  long  start.  "  Too  long.  Much  too  long. 

—  Why  don't  they  bring  those  horses!" 
David  got  nothing  from  his  scrutiny  of  the 

dark.   The  volcano  growled  no  longer,  the  shrill 


THE   SHADOWS  97 

fit  of  cock-crow  had  died  away ;  so  that  through  a 
fresh  matin  stillness  there  mounted  what  might 
have  been  the  crunching  rattle  of  wheels. 

"There  she  goes,  now!"  David  cleft  the  lily- 
hedge  once  more,  and  stumbled  down  into  the 
path. 

No  sooner  had  he  leaned  out  from  the  leafy 
embrasure  of  the  hill,  than  he  observed  a  wide 
and  striking  alteration  in  the  abyss.  The  road- 
menders  remained  at  work ;  their  fasces  of  bamboo 
splints  clustered,  as  before,  in  streamers  of  murky 
flame ;  the  clouds  prolonged  their  motionless  yet 
troubled  surface,  their  milk-white  counterpane, 
quilted  with  puffy  swellings  and  dimples.  Dawn 
still  quivered,  hesitated,  on  the  rim  of  the  world. 
Close  underneath,  curving  with  the  mighty  curve 
of  the  mountain  flank,  the  road  still  gleamed  like 
a  tawny  fish-hook,  its  barb  bent  down  and  buried 
among  formless  trees  and  shadows.  Yet  the  as 
pect  of  all  this  nether  scene  had  changed.  There 
had  been  shrinkage. 

For  a  time,  the  watcher  was  perplexed.  Then 
at  a  flash,  he  saw  how  the  whole  warfare  of  sil 
houettes  had  ended,  declined,  and  left  the  upper 
air  at  peace. 

Close  above  the  coolies'  heads,  a  thick  white 
billow  of  mist  had  rolled  up,  blank  and  solid  as 
a  wall,  and  impending  with  a  face  nearly  as  ver 
tical.  Caught  by  the  interposition  of  this  screen, 


98  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

the  hill-men's  shadows  now  waged  a  tumult  more 
sharply  defined,  more  near  and  black  and  intel 
ligible,  though  not  less  than  colossal,  even  in  re 
duction.  The  crawling  mist  had  withered  the  war 
of  gods  into  a  labor  of  titans. 

On  all  this  David  cast  a  negligent  eye,  for  his 
ear  was  not  yet  satisfied.  Up  from  the  lighted  pit 
came  only  a  scraping  of  shovels,  and  a  slow  thud 
of  tamping-rods.  At  last,  however,  grinding 
through  these  noises,  the  carriage-wheels  drew 
nearer  and  nearer,  down  a  sharp  declivity  on  the 
left. 

The  coolies  peered  up  hill,  shouted  commands 
to  each  other,  gave  here  and  there  a  final  hurried 
thump  to  the  repairs,  and,  catching  up  their 
torches,  dodged  across  the  road.  As  men  and 
flambeaux  vanished  under  the  base  of  David's 
battlement,  so  the  whole  pantomime  of  shadows 
took  flight.  The  torches,  now  ranged  out  of  sight 
below  the  bank,  threw  into  white  relief  the  op 
posing  cloud-wall,  and  lighted  the  empty  road 
with  fitful,  streaming  glory,  as  for  a  procession 
of  barbaric  royalty. 

The  procession  was  slow  in  coming ;  but  pre 
sently  the  four  Sandalwood  ponies  descended  into 
view,  stepping  gingerly  on  the  loosened  earth,  and 
picking  their  way.  Points  of  metal  flickered  on 
their  harness.  The  coachman's  red  hat  shone  as 
though  wet  with  fresh  blood,  and  his  long  whip 


THE   SHADOWS  99 

glistened  in  a  drooping  curve.  Miss  Arnot  re 
mained  invisible.  David  caught  only  a  glimmer 
from  white  linen,  where  she  leaned  back  in  the 
deep  recess  of  the  carriage. 

Instantly,  parallel  with  their  descent,  a  black 
extravagance  towered  into  action :  along  the  rear 
ing  cloud,  as  on  a  marble  screen,  tossed  the  in 
tense  and  magnified  shadows  of  horses'  heads ; 
the  coachman's  lifted  fists  clutching  a  web  of  reins, 
his  flat  nose,  beneath  his  conical  hat,  rose  next  and 
slanted  downward,  tall  as  a  tree ;  then  a  huge  ra 
diation  of  spokes  revolved  through  an  arc  wider 
than  a  windmill's.  The  body  of  the  carriage 
passed  in  a  bulk  of  silhouette,  without  form. 

And  then  David,  watching,  had  called  aloud ; 
for  what  came  last  came  incredible,  like  a  por 
tent  in  the  heavens. 

Drawn  slowly  across  the  shining  cloud,  ap 
peared  the  giant  similitude  of  a  face.  Even  in  the 
wavering  projection  of  that  stupendous  scale, 
it  was  a  face  well  known  and  startling.  The 
rounded  nose,  the  thick  lips  parted  in  a  smile, 
were  not  to  be  mistaken. 

"Rosario  !"  cried  the  young  man  from  his  hill 
top  ;  and  again  in  wonder  and  dismay,  "  Rosario  ! " 

The  black  portrait  blurred  like  a  column  of 
smoke,  as  the  native  groom,  perching  in  the  rum 
ble,  suddenly  turned  his  head. 


CHAPTER  IX 

DOWN    HILL 

THAT  was  enough.  What  David  saw,  below, 
had  neither  sense  nor  connection;  but  as  he 
shouted  the  name,  the  figure  in  the  rumble  had 
started,  turned  its  head,  and  caused  Rosario's 
likeness  to  melt  from  the  cloud. 

"It  was !  It  is !"  repeated  the  young  man,  see 
ing  in  a  daze  the  carriage  go  lumbering  past  the 
repairs,  gather  headway,  and  spin  round  the  fish 
hook  bend  of  the  road. 

"Master,  your  horses,"  murmured  Sidin,  at  his 
elbow.  "Your  horses  are  at  the  door." 

David  caught  the  native  by  the  sleeve,  and 
pointed  down  hill. 

"Quickly!"  he  cried  in  the  vernacular.  "I 
must  run  after  them.  Quickly!  How?" 

The  brown  chamberlain  kept  a  level  head. 
Upward,  over  his  shoulder,  he  flung  the  com 
mand  :  — 

"  Coachman!  Follow  us  by  the  road  !  Gallop !" 

Downward,  with  a  jerk  of  the  chin,  he  indi 
cated  a  gap  in  the  foliage. 

"This  way,  master.   Follow  me." 


DOWN  HILL  101 

He  flung  himself  recklessly  over  the  precipice, 
as  it  seemed,  and  was  gone.  David  swung  after, 
fell  his    own  height,  landed  ankle-deep  in  soft 
earth,  and  went,  ploughing  an  almost  perpendic- 
i  ular  furrow  down  the  mountain-side.    His  hel 
met  flew  off  into  the  night,  like  a  clumsy  bird. 
|  Below  him  the  whiteness  of  Sidin's  jacket  slid 
with  amazing  velocity  toward  the  torchlight,  in  a 
I  luminous  cloud  of  reddish  dust.  Along  with  both 
men,  and  from  behind,  rolled  and  bounded  many 
1  small  round  things,  as  though  the  mountain  had 
I  let  slip  an  avalanche  of  skulls  or  lively  cannon 
I  balls.    Once  David  snatched  at  the  appearance 
of  a  bush,  which  came  up  loose  in  his  hand,  with 
|  the  facility  of  a  dream;  and  as  he  shot  down 
I  toward  the  glare  of  the  flambeaux,  he  found,  in 
passing  astonishment,  that  this  thing  he  bran 
dished  was  a  potato-stalk.   He  flung  it  away,  dug 
both  hands  deep  into  the  sliding  dust,  and  so 
retarded,  fell  unhurt  over  a  bank  between  the 
torch-bearers.   Turnips,  carrots,  and  other  half- 
recognized  European  vegetables  fell  with  him, 
showering  from  the  uprooted  garden. 

Sidin  hauled  him  to  his  feet,  crying,  as  before : 
"This  way,  master!" 

Through  jostling  torches,  the  two  men  ran 
straight  on  across  the  road,  and  jumped  down 
from  the  glare  into  a  drenching  darkness  of  rat 
tans,  among  which  they  tumbled  in  a  blind,  trans- 


102  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

verse  descent.  A  path  seemed  to  slant  and  dodge 
drunkenly  underfoot.  By  turns  David  ran,  fell 
without  warning,  rolled,  gained  his  footing,  dove 
through  rattans  as  through  torn  paper,  rose  from 
all-fours,  and  ran  down  the  mountain  again  in 
flying  leaps  and  bounds.  He  cared  nothing  when 
he  fell,  seeing  clearly  that  by  this  breakneck 
course  he  should  soon  drop  once  more  upon  the 
meandering  road.  Now  and  then,  in  a  bit  of  clear 
ing,  he  shook  the  dew  from  his  eyes  and  saw  over 
head,  where  clouds  were  parting,  the  still,  blue, 
swimming  light  of  day. 

He  weltered  through  a  green  surge  of  stag-horn 
ferns,  when  Sidin  clutched  him  aside  from  a  hid 
den  brink. 

"There!"  cried  the  boy. 

Mylord  and  ponies  stood  motionless  in  the 
road,  under  their  very  noses.  Two  orange  lamps 
glowed  brightly  in  a  kind  of  slanting  dell. 

Miss  Arnot's  voice  rose,  clear  and  cool  as  a  part 
of  the  morning  stillness. 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  she  declared. 
"Go  back  to  your  place!" 

A  softer  voice  replied,  in  half-audible  per 
suasion.  It  came  from  the  farther  side  of  the 
carriage,  where  a  golden-bowl  hat  glimmered 
vaguely.  The  rumble  showed  vacant.  The 
groom,  it  seemed,  —  Rosario,  or  the  likeness  of 
Rosario,  —  stood  pleading  by  the  step. 


DOWN  HILL  103 

"  Nonsense !"  the  girl  retorted  sharply.  "  Drive 
on,  coachman.  This  fellow  is  impudent." 

The  driver,  whether  or  not  he  understood,  sat 
on  his  box  like  a  statue. 

"Drive  on!"  repeated  her  resolute  voice. 

And  then,  while  David  slid  crashing  dow^n  the 
bank,  she  had  cried  out  in  surprise.  The  golden 
bowl  bobbed  up,  a  white  sleeve  shot  into  the  car 
riage,  snatched,  and  whipped  back.  David  sprang 
to  the  nearer  step  just  as  the  groom  leaped  down 
from  the  farther,  and  scurried  for  the  bushes. 

"Oh!"  cried  Miss  Arnot,  in  a  mixture  of  in 
dignation  and  relief.  She  raised  her  hands  toward 
David,  showing  them  empty.  "  See !  He  took  it 
—  what  you  gave  me!" 

"I'll  get  it  back,"  panted  the  rescuer;  and 
ducking  under  her  ponies'  heads,  he  ran  toward 
the  place  where  the  groom  had  jumped  down 
into  the  foliage. 

Half-way,  David  regained  his  common-sense, 
pulled  up  short  in  the  road,  and  faced  about. 

"You're  more  important  than  that  thing,"  he 
asserted.  "We  must  let  it  go.  I  can't  leave  you 
here." 

The  white  figure  leaning  from  the  mylord  gave 
a  little  gesture  of  disappointment. 

"I'm  perfectly  safe." 

David  stood  in  a  quandary. 

"  With  that  coachman  ?  —  He  disobeys  you. 


104  THE   TWISTED    FOOT 

And  your  maid  there  is  in  it,  I  suspect."  He 
ground  his  fists  together.  "I  can't  —  I  can't 
leave  you  behind,  alone." 

A  bedraggled  but  calm  little  person  stood  be 
fore  him. 

"Master,  here  am  I."  Sidin,  the  forgotten, 
smiled  pleasantly  in  the  twilight.  Like  all  natives, 
he  could  follow  the  pantomime  of  white  strangers. 
"Allow  me  that  driver's  kriss,  and  I  will  guard." 

David  gave  a  chuckle  of  content. 

"Sidin,  you're  a  brick."  He  ran  to  the  front 
wheel,  jerked  the  coachman  by  the  ankle,  and 
cried  up  at  him  fiercely,  — 

"Give  this  man  your  kriss!" 

The  driver  stared  in  cunning  stupidity,  then 
folded  down  a  sash  devoid  of  weapons,  and 
grinned.  But  quick  as  a  cat,  Sidin  was  already 
climbing  the  spokes,  and  in  a  trice  had  pulled 
from  under  the  box-cushion  a  carved  hilt  em 
bedded  in  a  wooden  sheath. 

"  Abis  /"  he  grunted,  thrusting  the  kriss  into 
his  own  sash.  "Ready,  master.  I  guard.  Drive 
on,  kalang I  —  thou  lying  chew- bacon!" 

Once  more,  but  now  smiling,  David  turned  to 
the  white  figure  in  the  shadow. 

"You  can  trust  this  boy  Sidin,"  he  began. 
"Shall  I  go  - 

"Oh,  please!"  she  urged.  "If  you  can. — It 
was  his.  Gerald  sent  it  to  me." 


DOWN  HILL  105 

"Good;  I  will.    Drive  ahead,  Sidin." 

With  two  strides  and  a  plunge,  David  had  lost 
her,  and  was  aware  only  of  darkness,  of  wet  earth 
sliding  with  him,  of  wet  ferns  that  fetched  away 
in  a  tangle,  and  of  wet  rattan  scratching  his  face 
with  many  drooping  points.  Then  came  a  sharp 
anxiety,  as  he  rose  from  hands  and  knees,  to  lis 
ten  through  the  underbrush.  Which  way  might 
be  Rosario's  ?  This  perpendicular  jungle  was  all 
alike  in  the  gloom,  a  vague  wet  forest,  scented 
powerfully  with  sulphur  from  the  furrow  his  boot- 
heels  left  in  volcanic  earth,  and  with  a  pungent 
aroma,  like  that  of  camomile,  from  torn  shrubs. 

"Which  way?"  thought  David.  It  was  mad 
dening  to  consider,  while  he  listened,  that  below 
somewhere  the  thief  meantime  made  flying 
strides  down  the  mountain.  No  way  but  down ; 
yet  that  way  meant  a  score  of  different  directions 
—  to  left,  to  right,  or  straight  ahead  —  with  no 
trail  in  the  dark. 

"Useless !"  he  grunted.  And  overcome  by  this 
aspect  of  his  chase,  he  began  to  clamber  down 
slowly  and  mechanically,  intending  to  regain  the 
road  and  await  her  carriage  on  its  next  long  tack 
through  the  woods. 

Within  three  steps,  however,  he  was  running 
and  tumbling  again  in  the  soaked  undergrowth.  A 
new  motive  possessed  him,  not  to  be  denied,  —  a 
chill  fury  which  took  the  place  of  reason,  resolve, 


106  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

or  guiding  purpose.  What  had  she  said  ?  "  It  was 
his."  It  was  his,  this  needle  in  a  haystack.  It  was 
for  him,  the  godlike  young  stranger  buried  in  a 
palm  grove  among  a  labyrinth  of  distant  islands, 
that  she  wished  this  turmoil  to  continue.  Gerald 
—  Gerald  was  the  name ;  always,  at  every  turn, 
Gerald.  For  a  time,  as  David  fell  crashing  down 
ward,  the  unworthy  despair  sat  heavy  on  him, 
like  a  weight  upon  his  shoulders.  Then  by  de 
grees  he  threw  this  off  and  ran  free,  urged  by  a 
better  impulse,  a  dogged  loyalty  to  his  own  lost 
cause.  And  at  last,  when  he  scrambled  out  all 
unexpectedly  on  the  next  level  of  the  road,  he  con 
fronted  a  sight  at  which  hope  sprang  up  afresh, 
and  with  hope,  the  full  ardor  of  a  sportsman  for 
the  chase. 

This  new  reach  of  highway  was  not  empty.  The 
azure  dawn  revealed,  close  at  hand,  a  little  knot 
of  burden-bearers.  Above  them  reared  two 
shapes  on  horseback.  A  well-fed  Chinaman,  in 
silks  of  a  pale  and  vernal  green,  sat  resting  his 
pony  for  the  climb.  With  huge  diamonds  in  her 
ears,  his  best  wife  waited  beside  him,  her  slant 
eyes  fixed  on  her  saddlebow  in  conscious  pro 
priety. 

"Baba,"  said  David,  saluting.  "Baba,  have 
you  seen  a  man  pass?" 

The  plump  equestrian  merchant  nodded  cour 
teously.  His  eyes  twinkled  with  the  ready  humor 


DOWN   HILL  107 

of  one  who  had  overlooked  few  details  in  a  busy 
life. 

"Sir,"  he  answered,  sharpening  the  low  Malay 
with  his  Chinese  brogue,  "  sir,  a  man  ran  down 
into  the  road  as  you  have  run." 

"Which  way  then,  Baba?" 

"A  thief:  I  said  so."  The  sumptuous  horse 
man  nodded  in  satisfaction.  His  black  eyes 
brightened  with  an  approving  light.  "A  thief. 
He  wore  at  his  girdle  a  sirih  bag,  and  stopped  to 
put  something  inside  it.  Then  he  ran  so."  And 
the  Chinaman  jerked  his  thumb  toward  a  pointed 
arch  of  bamboo,  below  the  road. 

"I  thank  you,  Baba,"  cried  David  heartily,  as 
he  swung  down  again  into  the  dusky  forest. 

Here,  though  he  left  daylight  behind,  his  race 
was  not  so  encumbered.  Now  and  then  he  struck 
the  jointed  pillar  of  a  bamboo,  and  recoiled  with 
aching  ribs;  but  underfoot  the  ferns  and  wiry 
creepers  had  given  way  to  short  tough  grass  and 
herbs,  on  a  convex  slope  which  tilted  less  violently 
down  to  the  next  ravine.  Dodging  and  doubling 
like  a  half-back  through  a  crowded  field,  David 
made  such  speed  that  the  brushing  of  his  passage 
stirred  the  leaves  continuous  as  a  wind. 

Presently,  even  while  he  galloped,  this  steady 
rustling  surprised  him  by  its  magnitude.  He 
seemed  to  disturb  the  very  treetops,  like  a  giant. 
And  why  did  the  noise  precede  him  in  a  whisper- 


108  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

ing  rush  that  grew  louder  and  louder,  as  though 
the  invisible  spur  of  the  mountain,  ahead,  rever 
berated  his  echoes  throughout  the  cool,  deep 
morning  ? 

A  running  volley  of  squeaks,  of  cries  half 
smothered  among  leaves  and  switching  branches, 
began  to  answer  his  question.  Below  him,  the 
feathery  heads  of  a  little  grove  drooped  in  the 
dawn,  without  a  breath  to  sway  them.  Yet 
straight  across  their  surface  went  a  narrow  swath 
of  motion,  a  single  wave  where  the  bamboo  fronds 
violently  tossed.  Black  imps  appeared  and  dis 
appeared  through  this  arboreal  tumult,  pawing 
and  elbowing  like  swimmers  who  romp  in  a  green 
surf. 

"Monkeys,"  thought  the  runner.  "My  friends 
of  last  night.  The  bush-apes." 

And  then  he  understood  their  commotion.  It 
traveled  far  below  him,  but  in  a  straight  line. 
The  black  and  hairy  tribe  could  neither  gambol  so 
fast,  nor  keep  up  such  a  derisive  squabble,  unless 
they,  too,  were  giving  chase. 

"It's  Rosario.  They're  following  him."  The 
discovery  sent  David  thundering  faster  down  the 
slope.  "  My  friend,  I  have  your  line  now !  —  I  've 
got  him,  by  Darwin  and  Hanuman!" 

So,  following  the  revel  of  the  apes  where  they 
swam  through  their  leafy  element,  he  shot  out 
of  the  woods,  across  the  road  again,  and  down 


DOWN   HILL  109 

through  another  hanging  forest.  A  path,  well 
beaten,  swerved  suddenly  to  join  his  course.  Now 
he  ran  with  speed  redoubled,  exulting;  for  on 
either  hand  the  mountain  dropped  through  an 
impenetrable  net  of  lianas,  pierced  only  by  this 
path.  No  choice  of  direction :  even  here  the  tough 
serpentine  creepers  had  been  chopped  with  diffi 
culty,  and  their  loose  ends  dangled  close  and 
heavy,  like  cordage  cut  away  in  shipwreck.  Ro- 
sario  might  not  choose  but  stay  in  the  path. 

Now,  also,  David  could  fall  into  that  long, 
skipping  step  which  devours  the  ground,  and 
which,  to  down-hill  running,  imparts  a  joy  like 
the  joy  of  flight.  He  drank  the  fragrant  air  be 
fore  him.  His  descent  outstripped  the  descent  of 
morning,  and  left  it  lingering  far  above  on  the 
mountain  peaks ;  for  once,  over  a  cleared  terrace, 
he  shot  past  a  cluster  of  woven  huts  all  punc 
tured  with  ruby  points  of  light,  and  showing  —  a 
night-piece  in  transparency  —  the  black  shapes 
of  mountaineers  huddled  round  a  [brazier,  like 
an  arrested  puppet-show  inside  a  great  basket, 
lighted  by  a  handful  of  coals.  The  sight  recalled 
to  David,  as  he  ran,  that  other  plaited  hut  in  a 
palm  grove,  at  dawn.  He  passed  an  embowered 
hamlet  all  asleep,  except  for  its  white-bearded 
chieftain,  who  in  ghostly  robe  stood  smoking 
pensively  a  long  cigarette  before  his  gate,  revolv 
ing  statecraft  for  his  family  of  neighbors.  And 


110  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

next,  overhead,  the  bush-apes  perched  like  dim 
clusters  of  uneasy  fruit,  their  chattering  silenced 
and  their  fickle  interest  gone.  After  that,  a  fleet 
ing  impression  of  sounds  buried  among  the  trees : 
drums  beat  in  feeble  monotony,  and  scattered 
choirs  —  of  many  voices,  from  many  places,  but 
one  in  key  and  rhythm  —  chanted  the  Koran  of 
the  Prophet,  to  greet  the  day.  Down  into  a  wak 
ing  valley  the  path  sped  like  an  arrow,  and  David 
with  it. 

"  Rot !"  He  slid  to  a  standstill,  blockaded ;  for 
suddenly  another  path  forked  before  him,  down 
to  the  left.  And  this  time  there  appeared  neither 
Chinaman  nor  monkey  to  point  the  way.  David 
stood  alone  on  an  open  scar  of  red  earth. 

Far  off,  above  the  wooded  belt  where  chimara 
tops  prolonged  their  sage-green  mist,  a  range  of 
deep  blue  Fujiyamas  interlocked  in  jagged  pro 
file  against  the  morning.  The  slant  edge  of  one 
glowed  white-hot,  like  a  steel  rail  in  a  foundry. 
Here  and  there,  aloft  in  broader  incandescence, 
floating  wisps  of  crater  smoke  already  caught  the 
sunrise.  Below,  the  whole  valley  lay  smothered 
in  cool  fog,  white  as  cotton,  through  which  rose 
palm-heads  like  tattered  islands.  The  beating  of 
drums,  the  chanting  of  the  Koran,  rose  louder 
from  the  near  edge  of  this  vaporous  lake. 

"I  've  lost  him,"  David  grumbled.  "Once  he 
gets  down  into  that  — " 


DOWN  HILL  111 

With  strong  disfavor,  he  considered  the  forking 
paths.  The  left  branch  wound  along  the  crinkled 
edge  of  a  spur.  The  right  branch  tumbled  as  in 
a  series  of  cascades,  disappeared  under  the  trees, 
and  reappeared,  no  wider  than  a  ribbon,  in  a 
misty  clearing. 

On  this  David's  glance  lingered,  without  de 
cision.  He  was  still  at  a  loss,  when  into  the  clear 
space  darted  the  figure  of  a  man  running.  It  was 
the  counterfeit  groom,  and  no  other ;  for  above 
his  twinkling  legs  was  kilted  a  sarong  of  many 
colors,  and  on  his  head  bobbed  a  Mambrino's 
helmet  of  gold  lacquer. 

David  leaped  into  the  right-hand  path.  Know 
ing  his  own  pace,  and  having  seen  Rosario's,  he 
felt  certain  that  the  pursuit  would  end  within  a 
quarter-mile.  Under  the  trees  he  dashed,  and 
through  the  clearing ;  then,  down  a  wet  little  path 
that  struggled  through  reeds  and  swamp  grass, 
he  held  the  fugitive  at  last  in  view. 

Both  men  were  now  at  top  speed.  David  saw 
the  other  toss  back  over  his  shoulder  one  quick, 
startled  glance,  and  then  pump  hard  with  tense 
arms  in  a  desperate  endeavor  to  spurt.  But  the 
short  legs  could  ply  no  faster ;  the  long  were  gain 
ing. 

Ahead,  the  marshy  lane  broke  open,  to  end  in 
a  white  gleam  of  shallow  water.  A  little  moun 
tain  lake  closed  the  vista,  lying  still  as  a  dream 


THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

under  the  rising  mist.  Beside  a  ragged  jetty  of 
piled  stones,  in  an  open-work  bamboo  pavilion, 
squatted  a  gay  company  of  men  in  colored  silks, 
upholding  stiffly  a  mushroom  clump  of  gilt  um 
brellas. 

Straight  past  these  bounded  Rosario,  across 
the  tiny  sunken  jetty,  and  down,  as  it  seemed, 
into  the  water. 

David  ran  up  in  time  to  see  the  fellow  shove 
off  frantically  with  a  paddle,  glide  out  from  shore, 
and  sitting  on  the  thwart  of  a  dugout,  begin  to 
lash  the  water  with  stroke  upon  stroke. 

"All  right,  Rosario!"  David  called  after  him, 
laughing.  "Plenty  of  boats  here.  We'll  hold  a 
regatta!" 

It  was  not  so  easy.  Before  he  could  reach  the 
other  dugouts  lying  at  the  end  of  the  jetty,  he 
found  himself  blocked  by  an  angry  swarm  of  na 
tives,  —  no  common  men,  but  martial  aristocrats 
in  gorgeous  raiment,  with  kriss-hilts  of  chased 
gold,  and  proud,  courtly  faces  in  which  a  live  pas 
sion  of  anger  only  heightened  the  cool  and  con 
temptuous  dignity. 

"Let  me  pass!"  began  David  impatiently. 

"Sir,  you  shall  not!"  A  slim  young  patrician, 
crowned  haughtily  by  a  Mussulman's  turban  of 
primrose-yellow  satin,  raised  his  hand  with  per 
emptory  grace.  "Call  back  your  servant.  This 
lake  is  forbidden.  No  man  shall  pass  here." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  LAKE  ISLE 

"FORBIDDEN?" 

"Forbidden,  sir."  The  young  Mussulman  in 
clined  his  primrose  turban,  but  stood  firm. 

Past  his  shoulder  David  could  see  Rosario 
flailing  the  water,  with  a  play  of  back  muscles 
that  wrinkled  the  white  jacket.  The  dugout 
swam  deep,  weighted  with  a  cargo  of  bilge  or 
rain,  which  quivered  round  the  robber's  feet,  and 
shone  like  quicksilver.  The  escape  would  be  slow. 
It  was  none  the  easier  to  watch. 

"Who  forbids  ?"  David  met  stare  with  stare, 
coolness  with  coolness.  "  Who  are  you  ?" 

What  lay  behind  such  unwonted  impudence, 
he  could  not  guess.  But  this  imperious  native 
spoke  like  one  having  authority. 

"It  matters  little  who  I  am,"  was  the  calm 
retort.  "  My  orders  matter  greatly.  This  lake  is 
at  present  forbidden  to  any  man  short  of  Regent 
or  Resident.  Call  back  your  servant." 

The  young  man's  turban,  and  the  arrogant 
poise  of  his  head,  gave  him  almost  an  appearance 
of  being  tall  and  masterful ;  his  face,  delicately 
modeled,  and  of  a  brown  hardly  deeper  than 


114  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

sunburn,  shone  spirited  and  threatening;  yet  a 
twitching  about  the  lips,  a  barely  perceptible 
shifting  of  the  eyes,  betrayed  some  anxiety  min 
gled  with  his  boldness.  The  other  natives  —  all 
but  three  who  squatted  patiently  to  uphold  their 
gilt  umbrellas  —  had  at  first  flocked  out  from 
the  pavilion  like  a  bevy  of  gorgeous  and  excited 
parrakeets ;  but  now  they  stood  withdrawn  from 
the  jetty,  watching  their  spokesman.  Every  face 
showed  intent  and  eager ;  yet  their  very  eagerness, 
their  unanimous  frown  of  indignation,  bore  a 
wavering  aspect.  The  whole  band  might  have 
been  conspirators  overtaken. 

David  saw,  and  promptly  chose  his  course. 

"That  man  is  not  my  servant,  but  a  thief." 
He  pointed  at  the  paddler  laboring  in  the  heavy 
dugout ;  then  turned  upon  the  strutting  chieftain 
with  a  calm,  well-feigned  severity.  "I  come  on 
the  part  of  one  who  is  far  greater  than  Regent, 
Resident,  or  Sultan." 

He  threw  in  the  final  word  merely  to  round  his 
sentence.  The  effect  surprised  him. 

The  comely  Mohammedan  youth  stepped 
aside,  and  lowered  his  primrose  turban  in  a  pro 
found  bow,  his  face,  meanwhile,  transformed  by 
a  lively  interchange  of  consternation,  anger,  and 
sullen  respect. 

"Of  course  you  may  have  a  boat,  sir."  With 
constrained  politeness,  he  picked  his  way  over 


THE  LAKE  ISLE  115 

jumbled  stones  to  where  the  jetty  slumped  among 
reeds  and  shallow  water;  then  waving  courte 
ously  his  slim  brown  hand,  he  installed  David  in 
the  craft  which  waited  there,  —  a  rude  catamaran, 
or  fragmentary  pontoon,  of  three  dugouts  lashed 
together  with  areng  fibre,  decked  amidships,  and 
covered  by  a  scant  awning  of  palm  thatch.  "  Will 
two  paddlers  suffice  you,  sir?  —  Amat!"  he 
called  ashore ;  "  Amat !  Ali !  Bring  fresh  matting 
for  this  gentleman,  and  row  him  well !" 

Two  humble  natives  came  running  to  obey. 
They  hopped  aboard,  caught  up  their  paddles, 
and  perched  on  the  edge  of  the  catamaran.  David, 
sitting  comfortably  under  the  little  thatched 
marquee,  was  still  wondering  at  this  strange  and 
fortunate  reversal  of  policy,  when  his  helper 
stooped  toward  him  for  a  parting  word. 

"If  this  matter,"  murmured  the  quiet  voice, 
"if  this  should  come  to  the  ears  of  his  High  — " 
the  man  coughed  —  "  of  our  friend,  you  will  tell 
him  what  my  attitude  was  ?" 

His  level  tone,  his  gentle  brown  eyes,  his 
swarthy  face  masked  with  impassive  refinement, 
could  not  hide  the  fact  that  the  young  Mussul 
man  was  worried. 

"You  will  not  fail,  sir?"  he  begged.  "Above 
all  things,  our  friend  wishes  not  to  displease  the 
Nail  of  the  Universe!" 

David's  nod  was  benign  as  a  monarch's. 


116  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

"Be  content,"  he  answered. 

As  the  two  broad  paddles  struck  the  water,  he 
went  gliding  past  the  jetty,  calm  and  cross-legged, 
like  a  Buddha.  Yet  fairly  launched,  he  caught 
himself  grinning. 

"False  pretenses  somewhere,"  he  chuckled. 
"I'm  a  friend  to  his  Highness,  and  dear  old 
chums  with  the  Nail  of  the  Universe!" 

Turning,  David  glanced  astern.  The  proud 
young  chieftain  watched  him  doubtfully,  —  a 
splendid  figure  in  the  misty  light.  The  still 
though  passionate  face,  now  darkened  with  per 
plexity;  his  glowing  turban,  his  silk  skirt  pat 
terned  in  ripples  of  dull  blue  and  mellow  brown, 
his  jeweled  hilt  in  a  gold  sheath ;  the  man's 
speech,  of  purest  Malay,  —  these,  but  above  all, 
his  unaccountable  change  of  front,  gave  to  the 
whole  scene  a  droll,  Arabian  air  of  mystery. 

"  Can't  be  helped."  David  dismissed  the  puzzle, 
and  faced  toward  the  bow.  "False  pretenses  or 
not,  I  '11  catch  this  fellow." 

The  chase,  indeed,  would  soon  be  over.  Off 
the  port  bow,  a  thin  white  smoke  drifted  to  join 
a  rolling  cumulus  bank  of  vapor.  Elsewhere  the 
lake  stretched  in  shallow,  aerial  blue  under  the 
sunrise.  The  fugitive's  gleaming  head-piece  rose 
and  fell  with  every  beat  of  his  paddle,  in  a 
dogged  but  losing  rhythm.  His  water-logged  lit 
tle  prau,  the  black  tip  of  an  arrow-head  sketched 


THE   LAKE  ISLE  117 

in  faint  waves  that  spread  and  vanished,  drew 
slowly  nearer  and  nearer.  Each  time  that  he 
twisted  on  his  thwart  for  a  backward  glimpse, 
the  dismay  graven  in  his  face  appeared  more 
legible.  David  saw  the  bright  drops  glitter  as 
he  whirled  his  paddle  overhead,  and  began  dig 
ging  the  blade  furiously  over  the  other  gunwale. 

"What's  he  doing?  He  can't  mean  to  turn 
round?" 

Ali,  bow  paddler,  answered  the  unspoken  ques 
tion. 

"Pulo,  Tuan?"  Grunting,  the  native  thrust 
out  his  chin  to  port;  then  faced  about,  with  a 
scared  look.  "The  island,  Tuan  ?" 

"  By  all  means !"  David  laughed  impatiently. 
He  saw  now  the  meaning  of  Rosario's  latest  trick. 
"By  all  means;  to  the  island!" 

The  dugout  trailed  heavily,  like  a  wounded 
saurian,  straight  across  their  nose,  and  pointed 
her  own  toward  the  rolling  mass  of  vapors.  Out 
of  this,  cleaving  its  way  into  full  sunlight,  came  as 
though  by  its  own  motion  the  green  wooded  bulk 
of  an  islet. 

"Faster,  man,  faster!"  cried  David;  for  the 
bow  oarsman,  after  swerving  their  triple  beak 
in  this  new  direction,  slackened  his  efforts,  and 
turned,  as  before,  with  frightened,  questioning 
eyes.  "  Go  on,  man !  What  ails  you  ?  To  the  is 
land!" 


118  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

"Oh,  sir,"  mourned  the  fellow.  "Oh,  sir,  do 
you  dare  ?" 

Amat,  in  the  stern,  rebuked  him  harshly. 

"Does  my  lord  the  crocodile  devour  shrimps  ?" 
he  sneered.  "Go  on,  Ali.  We  are  safe  enough. 
This  gentleman  from  Europe  will  take  the  blame." 

The  small  catamaran  once  more  forged  ahead. 
The  mist,  now  rolling  clear  of  the  island,  left  it 
stripped  of  motion,  bare  to  confront  the  morn 
ing,  —  a  lofty  clump  of  green  waringin  foliage, 
wet  and  glistening,  save  where  one  gigantic  top 
shone  leather-brown.  A  stillness  like  enchant 
ment  brooded  upon  trees  and  water. 

Why  any  man  in  broad  daylight  could  dread 
a  landfall  on  so  innocent  a  bit  of  grove,  floating 
so  peacefully  in  a  lake  pale  and  tranquil  as  the 
sky,  David  could  not  guess ;  the  fact  had  neither 
probability  nor  motive,  and  seemed,  like  that 
queer  embargo  at  the  jetty,  some  freak  of  child's 
play;  and  yet,  while  he  measured  the  distance 
between  craft,  and  to  the  shore,  he  felt  a  transient 
wonder  which  was  half  disquietude.  A  forbidden 
lake ;  a  pair  of  boatmen,  one  frightened  and  one 
grim ;  a  "Nail  of  the  Universe,"  who  must  not  be 
roused  to  anger,  —  these  figments  took  on  a  sud 
den  reality,  here  in  the  splendor  of  the  tropic 
morning,  before  this  dense  peak  of  isolated  forest 
charmed  into  fairy  stillness. 

It  was  no  time,  however,  for  subtleties  or  rid- 


THE   LAKE   ISLE  119 

dies.  David  could  hear  Rosario  panting  at  each 
stroke,  the  bilge-water  swashing  fore  and  aft  to 
the  same  rhythm. 

"  Stop !"  called  Ali,  in  a  sort  of  choking  dismay. 
"Stop  there!" 

At  his  cry,  as  if  obeying,  the  dugout  grounded. 
I  Half-tumbling,  half-leaping,  Rosario  was  over 
board,  ankle-deep,  ran  splashing  among  reeds 
to  the  shore,  took  the  low  bank  at  a  bound,  and 
hurled  himself  through  the  bushes,  out  of  sight. 

David's  pontoon  rushed  softly  into  the  sludge. 
Before  he  could  rise  from  his  mat,  the  two  na 
tives  had  flung  down  their  paddles,  sprung  ashore, 
and  snatched  off  their  varicolored  turbans.  Then 
each  man,  with  his  arms  behind  his  back,  wound 
the  gay  cotton  tightly  round  both  fists,  and 
struck  a  posture  of  submission. 

"  Ampun  Tuan-ku"  they  wailed  in  unison, 
standing  self-bound  like  a  pair  of  captives ;  "  be- 
ribu-ribu  ampun!  —  Pardon,  my  lord,  a  thou 
sand-thousand  pardons!" 

Their  entreaty  rose,  melodious  and  mournful, 
from  the  water's  edge.  No  voice  replied.  Again 
they  called,  as  though  imploring  the  empty  air, 
or  some  invisible  genius  of  the  shore.  A  family 
of  lizards,  sunning  themselves  on  the  dewy  bank, 
scuttled  off  among  dead  leaves.  Rosario's  rustling 
passage  through  the  bush  had  ceased  like  the 
dying  of  a  wind.  Reflected  sunshine,  rippling  up 


120  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

from  the  troubled  margin  of  the  lake,  played 
oozily  across  the  green  banyan  covert.  The  island 
returned  to  its  dreaming. 

"Ampun,  Tuan-ku!"  crooned  the  boatmen, 
side  by  side;  and  twisting  their  ligatures  afresh, 
bent  their  bare  heads  in  the  presence  of  nothing 
but  water,  trees,  and  the  brilliant  morning. 

Plainly,  this  pair  of  suppliants  would  stir  no 
farther.  And  of  a  sudden  it  came  strongly  upon 
David  that  he,  alone,  must  penetrate  this  enigma 
tic  bush,  and  with  bare  hands  capture  a  thief  who 
would  certainly  be  armed,  and  more  certainly  in 
hiding,  ready,  at  bay. 

He  snatched  up  the  bow  paddle,  and  jumped 
ashore ;  then,  twirling  the  great  blade  lightly,  he 
caught  the  balance,  and  took  firm  grip  of  the 
haft. 

"Anyhow,"  he  decided,  "I  can  spank  him!" 

He  climbed  the  bank,  but  paused  to  consider. 
Rosario  had  gone  to  cover  straight  ahead,  through 
those  branches.  Were  it  not  better,  then,  to  steal 
roundabout,  meet  ambush  with  detour,  and  sur 
prise  the  lurker  from  behind  ? 

"He's  lying  doggo,  somewhere.  Kriss  —  or 
gun,  perhaps  —  against  this  paddle  of  mine : 
that's  giving  odds.  We'll  do  a '  hike.'  Here  goes." 

Turning  a  flank  of  solid  greenery,  David  set 
foot  in  a  wider  recess  of  the  shore,  a  tiny  crescent 
of  tender  grass  curving  between  grove  and  lake. 


THE   LAKE  ISLE 

He  stood  in  his  tracks,  and  stared,  and  forgot  his 
errand. 

The  isle  contained  another  visitor. 

Over  the  turf   lay  spread  a  glorious  rug,  on 

jwhich  knelt  a  young  man,  praying.    With  his 

iback  turned  on  the  sunrise,  he  was  bowing  toward 

jMecca,  in   the  west.    As  he  fell   prostrate,   his 

| shadow  shrank  home  beneath  him;  as  he  rose 

jagain  to  his  knees,  it  darted  at  full  length  across 

the  lawn.    A  pair  of  sandals,  very  small,  and  of 

rich  leather,  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  carpet ;  and 

reside  them  glistened  a  kriss  in  a  heavy  golden 

scabbard,  with  a  golden  hilt  in  which  great  uncut 

•ubies  caught  the   sunshine   like   drops  of  fire. 

Sombre  to  his  waist,  the  stranger  wore  a  black 

ez  encircled  with  some  verse  from  the  Koran  in 

Vrabic  letters  of  gold  thread,  and  a  plain,  close- 

itting  jacket  of  black  silk ;  but  from  his  waist  to 

lis  powerful,  slim  ankles  flowed  a  sarong  miracu- 

ous  in  its  blending  of  soft  colors. 

At  sight  of  this,  David  understood  why  his  boat- 
nen  had  quailed.  The  pattern  on  the  sarong  was 
i  variant  of  the  Fighting  Deer,  worn  by  no  man 
:>ut  of  the  blood  royal. 

Raja,  prince,  king,  whatever  the  man  was,  he 
ontinued  his  devotions.    A  slight  rustle  of  silks, 
ind  now  and  then  a  fervent  whisper,  were  the 
mly  sounds  in  this  mosque  of  green  leaves. 
At  last  the  stranger  quietly  rose,  thrust  his  deli- 


THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

cate  brown  feet  into  the  little  sandals,  took  up  the 
golden  kriss,  and  slowly  turned.  His  deliberate, 
haughty  movement  brought  a  transformation  al 
most  dazzling.  The  priest  became  a  warrior ;  for 
the  whole  front  of  his  black  silk  jacket  glittered 
with  martial  frogs  and  loops  embroidered  in  gold. 
On  his  uplifted  fez  the  verse  from  the  Koran 
shone  like  a  challenge. 

"Wanneer  kwam  je?"  The  question  came 
swift  and  threatening.  His  Highness,  for  a  Malay, 
stood  very  tall  in  his  sandals.  A  wondrous  pair 
of  eyes,  angry  and  beautiful,  blazed  from  under 
his  feminine  lashes.  Every  line  in  his  face  — 
nostrils,  brows,  dark-red  lips  —  every  line  quiv 
ered  in  a  curve,  at  once  dainty  and  perilous.  He 
frowned.  "  Wanneer  kwam  je?" 

David,  conscious  of  muddy  legs,  wet,  frowzled 
hair,  and  clothes  everywhere  stained  with  green 
grass,  made  his  best  bow. 

"I  regret,  Your  Highness,"  he  replied,  "that 
I  have  disturbed  your  devotions ;  also  that  I  can 
not  speak  Dutch." 

The  stranger's  face  grew  brighter. 

"No  more  can  I,  really."  He  smiled,  like  a 
lonesome  boy  who  has  found  a  playmate.  "  Eng 
lish  ?  I  'm  very  glad  to  hear  the  sound  of  it." 
He  frowned  again.  "  You  have  n't  anything  to 
do,  have  you,  with  these  Dutch  officials  ?  Please 
tell  me  frankly." 


THE   LAKE  ISLE  123 

"Nothing  in  the  world,  sir,"  David  answered. 
"  I  am  a  traveler.  I  happen  to  be  chasing  a  rob 
ber,  who  took  refuge  here  on  your  island." 

His  Highness  frowned  no  longer,  but  nodded 
like  a  man  well  satisfied,  not  to  say  relieved. 

"This  is  very  interesting."  He  spoke  with 
quiet  alacrity,  and  smiled  again,  the  same  youth 
ful,  engaging  smile.  "We  shall  have  sport,  after 
all.  The  robber  is  hiding  here  now?" 

At  the  outset  of  their  interview,  he  had  thrust 
the  golden  scabbard  under  his  sash,  and  with 
punctilious  care,  had  turned  the  ruby  hilt  at  a 
pacific  angle.  Now  he  twisted  it  outward,  ready 
to  his  hand. 

"This  will  be  good  sport,"  he  declared.  "I 
have  been  frightfully  bored.  Let  us  go  beat  the 


cover." 


He  bowed  in  slight  and  not  ungracious  con 
descension,  turned,  and  led  the  way  across  the 
little  amphitheatre  of  grass.  Where  ponderous 
foliage  overhung,  they  gained  the  mouth  of  an 
alley  floored  with  moss. 

"Pooh!"  The  royal  man-hunter  halted  sud 
denly,  and  tossed  his  fez  with  a  quick,  scornful 
motion  of  the  head.  "Is  this  the  fellow?  Pooh! 
He's  not  dangerous,  I  fancy  —  not  worth  our 
trouble!" 

Out  of  the  lane,  his  thick  lips  set  in  an  ill- 
favored  smirk,  his  eyes  bold  as  the  brazen  shin- 


THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

ing  of  his  lacquered  hat,  swaggered  Rosario.  In 
the  dress  and  with  all  the  saucy  manner  of  a 
groom,  he  was  puffing  a  long  palm-sheathed  cigar 
ette. 

"Good-morning,  gentlemen!"  The  late  fugi 
tive,  now  at  ease,  blew  out  a  wreath  of  smoke, 
and  grinning  broadly,  watched  it  loiter  upward 
in  the  sunlight.  "Ah,  my  word,  you  know,  what 
an  extraordiny  jolly  little  spot  for  us  to  be  meet 
ing  in!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   WRITTEN   STONE 

THE  splendid  stranger  drew  back,  gathering  his 
pictured  skirt  in  folds,  as  though  to  save  the  Bat 
tle  of  Deer  from  all  ignoble  contact. 

"Who  is  this  fellow  ?"  Questioning  David,  he 
stared  over  Rosario's  head,  with  a  smile  that  was 
half  disgust,  half-languid  amusement.  "If  this 
—  er  —  specimen  is  European,  he  will  remove 
his  hat;  if  Asiatic,  his  boots!" 

Rosario  made  no  motion,  but  stood  unabashed, 
smirking  and  smoking. 

"  I  '11  show  you,  sir ! "  David  gripped  the  shoul 
der  of  this  too  affable  culprit,  and  holding  him 
tightly,  ransacked  the  sirih  bag  at  his  waist, 
jerked  away  his  sash  and  shook  it,  pulled  off  his 
golden  hat  and  head-kerchief  underneath.  The 
scuffle  bore  no  result,  beyond  a  squeak  of  indig 
nant  terror  from  Rosario,  and  a  cry  of  rage  from 
David. 

"He's  thrown  it  away !"  exclaimed  the  captor, 
and  flung  the  captive  aside,  revengefully. 

Stooping,  Rosario  picked  up  his  scattered  ap 
parel,  put  it  on,  adjusted  all  to  a  nicety,  and  began 
hunting  for  his  cigarette  throughout  the  grass. 


126  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

"I  am  still  in  the  dark,"  observed  his  Highness, 
not  without  asperity.  "Thrown  what  away?" 

"What  he  stole.  What  I  was  after. "  With  the 
eloquence  of  defeat,  David  poured  out  a  fiery  ex 
planation.  "There!"  he  concluded.  "The  last 
time  I  saw  this  fellow,  he  was  playing  white  man 
and  sugar-planter;  now  he's  playing  sais.  Any 
how  he's  a  thief,  who  bribes  coachmen  and  maid 
servants  to  rob  ladies  on  the  highway.  He  got 
away  with  that  packet.  I  saw  him.  And  the 
Chinaman  saw,  when  he  stuffed  it  into  his  betel 
kit.  And  now  he  's  hidden  it!" 

Rosario,  having  found  his  cigarette  by  the 
smoke,  pounced  on  it  like  a  jackdaw,  caught  it 
up,  and  waved  it  in  graceful  deprecation. 

"Wliat  nonsense,  gentlemen!"  he  interrupted 
soothingly.  "Ah  by  Jove,  now,  what  nonsense! 
Be-cause,  Mr.  Bowman,  you  have  not  one  bally 
bit  of  proof,  have  you,  to  show  at  present  moment  ? 
By  force  of  muscle,  you  may  dislocate  and  ruff 
my  clothes  all  day.  But  that  proves  nothing,  and 
besides  is  jolly  bad  form.  Ha  ha!" 

The  royal  figure,  erect  in  his  gold-emblazoned 
tunic,  had  watched  both  the  speakers  as  calmly 
as  though  holding  a  court  martial.  Now  he  be 
stowed  on  David  a  hardly  perceptible  nod,  and 
let  his  curved  eyelids  droop  in  restrained  but  quiz 
zical  comprehension. 

"  Of  course  I  believe  you"  he  murmured,  aside. 


THE   WRITTEN  STONE  127 

David  thanked  him  with  a  bow. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  struck  in  Rosario 
pertly.  "  Nothing  but  speak-so !  It  is  merely  — 
ah  —  testament  by  hear- tell !" 

The  unknown  prince  ignored  this  chatter,  and 
seemed  lost  in  mournful  thought.  Suddenly  his 
eyes  grew  brighter.  Raising  his  head,  he  ap 
peared  to  listen  after  some  far-off  sound. 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  murmured  in 
soliloquy.  "There,  I  think,  is  proof  enough. 
Hark!" 

Somewhere  beyond  the  shores  of  the  lake,  a 
hurried  staccato  drumming,  hollow  but  dead,  deep 
without  resonance,  came  nearer,  swelled  fitfully 
in  scattered  relays,  and  for  a  time  filled  the  coun 
tryside.  From  gardo  to  gardo  along  the  roads, 
watchmen  were  beating  on  their  time-logs  the 
rapid  alarm  which  proclaims  a  robber  at  large. 
The  message,  startling  the  whole  valley  from 
mountain  to  mountain  with  a  sort  of  wooden 
thunder,  recalled  to  David,  curiously,  the  drum 
ming  of  myriad  partridges  in  his  northern  woods, 
at  home.  Station  to  station,  village  to  village 
spread  the  alarm,  each  log  echoing  loudly  to  the 
next,  —  " Robbery  —  robbery  —  a  robbery !" 

"There  it  goes!"  cried  David.  "That  boy 
Sidin  found  time  to  pass  the  word.  What  do  you 
say  now,  Rosario  ?" 

The  fellow  said  nothing,  for  a  time,  but  only 


128  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

tilted  his  golden  hat  and  stood  listening,  like  a 
robin  after  worms.  The  morning  air  throbbed  and 
rumbled  accusations,  that  compassed  him  about. 
His  thick  lips  never  lost  their  smirk,  or  his  lus 
trous,  dilated  eyes  their  look  of  ready  cunning. 

"What  do  I  say?"  he  mocked.  Then,  twirl 
ing  his  cigarette  in  supple  fingers,  he  stood  and 
listened  roguishly.  "  What  I  say  ?  O  my  dear 
chaps,  I  am  not  easy  to  be  strike  dumb!" 

Plainly,  he  was  nursing  some  joke,  —  a  secret 
which  tickled  his  fancy,  and  with  which  he  was 
loath  to  part. 

The  dull  hubbub  of  the  alarm  traveled,  divid 
ing  and  spreading  until  it  was  hushed  in  distance. 

"Ha  ha!"  Rosario  suddenly  wheeled  on  his 
foes,  a  brisk  and  beaming  malignant.  "Now, 
then,  gentlemen !  Now  I  say  it.  Your  brain  are 
very  slow.  You  think,  now  all  the  villages,  all  the 
hills  know  what  I  have  done.  Good !  You  think, 
now  you  have  catched  me!  Ah  my  word,  you 
suppose  my  mind  is  slow  interior  like  yours.  No, 
gentlemen!"  Rosario  grinned,  like  a  pampered 
child  brimming  with  self-esteem.  "Ah,  no!  It 
is  nimble,  very,  very  nimble  interior  is  my  mind. 
Now  see  it.  You  give  me  for  the  custody,  to  some 
Dutchman  with  the  great  pad-belly  of  rice,  and 
shave  head.  Very  well." 

He  wheeled,  menacingly,  on  the  stranger. 

"And  you,"  he  cried  in  triumph;  "it  is  very 


THE   WRITTEN   STONE          129 

well,  also,  for  you  to  stand  so  proud,  looking 
through  my  poor  body  so  transparently.  You! 
Ho  ho !  Come,  give  me  to  the  Dutch  officer ! 
Give!  And  me,  what  do  I  say  ?  I  only  say, '  Look, 
Dutchman:  here  in  your  district,  here  on  this 
island,  is  not  less  a  person  than  his  Highness 
the  Sultan  of  — '  " 

"  Stop  there !"  Without  a  gesture,  the  haughty 
and  emblazoned  Malay  cut  short  this  tirade.  His 
face  remained  calm,  but  for  an  instant  his  wonder 
ful  eyes  burned  yet  more  wonderful,  in  anger  and 
contempt.  "You  have  said  enough.  G*3  back  to 
your  stables!" 

Rosario  doffed  his  gleaming  hat  in  mockery. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  he  chuckled.  "I  shall 
go  when  I  —  ah  —  when  I  jolly  well  please." 
Replacing  the  bowl  on  top  of  his  mottled  kerchief, 
he  snapped  its  band  under  his  chin  as  daintily  as 
a  girl ;  then  stood  at  ease,  one  arm  akimbo,  the 
other  holding  out  at  full  length  his  cigarette, 
which  he  studied  with  pert  sagacity,  through 
half-closed  eyes.  "Suppose,"  he  slowly  contin 
ued,  "  suppose  we  make  bargain  ?  Your  High 
ness  never  mentions  me,  let  us  say.  Good !  I 
engage,  of  my  part,  no  word  shall  reach  the  Nail 
of  the  Universe.  Come,  now?" 

The  young  Sultan,  whatever  place  he  governed, 
could  govern  his  own  temper. 

"Sir,"  —  with  an  air  of  extreme  weariness,  he 


130  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

turned  quietly  to  David,  —  "I  am  not  well  used 
to  dealing  with  the  coolie  class  of  half-breeds. 
Neither  are  you,  I  dare  say.  How  shall  we  tell 
this  stable  parrot  that  we  have  not  the  slightest 
wish  to  trade  or  bargain  with  it  ?" 

David  came  forward  with  savage  alacrity. 

"I'll  get  you  rid  of  him,  sir."  He  caught  Ro- 
sario  by  the  wrist,  and  jerking  him  out  of  his  fine 
attitude,  dragged  him  headlong  round  the  screen 
of  foliage,  to  the  bank  where  he  had  landed. 
"Now  then!  You  see  your  boat.  Get  aboard, 
and  go!"  * 

In  a  babble  of  protestations,  Rosario  went  spin 
ning  down  among  the  reeds,  flung  by  the  out 
stretched  arm  like  a  heaved  lead.  He  sprawled  on 
his  face  before  the  two  boatmen,  who  had  sud 
denly  dropped  on  their  knees  at  the  water's  edge. 

Rosario  scrambled  to  his  feet,  cursing  volubly. 
But  Amat  and  Ali,  kneeling  bareheaded  in  the 
sun,  remained  oblivious  to  his  outcry,  nor  looked 
up  until  another  voice  addressed  them  from  the 
bank. 

"Boatmen!"  Their  Sultan  spoke  as  one  who 
did  not  stoop  to  reprimand.  "Boatmen,  that 
person  on  this  island  is  your  only  disgrace.  Re 
move  it." 

The  pair  sprang  up,  light-footed,  to  earn  their 
pardon.  Unbinding  their  hands  from  the  ikat- 
diri,  they  bowed  low  together. 


THE   WRITTEN   STONE  131 

"Remove  him  to  the  shore,"  repeated  the  Sul 
tan.  "Give  him  to  my  guards.  Let  him  not 
escape." 

Without  staying  to  see  his  order  executed,  the 
speaker  beckoned  to  David,  and  turned  calmly 
away. 

"If  you  don't  mind  ?"  he  said,  with  a  friendly 
smile. 

Side  by  side  they  reentered  the  privacy  of  the 
little  lawn,  passed  the  riot  of  glorious  colors 
where  the  prayer- rug  lay,  and  halted,  face  to  face 
in  the  warm  and  fragrant  recess.  The  two  men 
were  a  good  pair.  Courtly  poise,  and  warlike 
habit  of  authority,  made  the  Sultan's  presence  a 
fair  match  for  David's  stature.  Each  regarded 
the  other  with  the  same  smile  of  humorous  an 
noyance,  on  the  common  level  of  perplexity. 

"Do  you  know,"  began  the  prince,  "that  fel 
low  really  had  us.  He's  put  me  in  a  most  vexing 
position." 

"I  'm  sorry,  Your  Highness,"  replied  David. 
"Sincerely." 

"Oh,  as  to  that — "  The  other  waved  his 
trouble  aside ;  then,  with  an  impulse  both  frank 
and  shy,  he  put  forth  his  hand.  "  I  like  your  ways. 
Mr.  — Mr.  Bowman?  So,  I  believe,  that  little 
ass  called  you  ?" 

David  laughed,  and  shook  hands. 

"But,"  continued  the  quiet  voice,  "I  do  wish 


132  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

you'd  drop  all  those  beastly  *  sirs'  and  'high 
nesses.'  If  you  could  guess  how  deadly  dull  — 
Well,  my  life  's  made  a  burden,  with  —  what  do 
you  call  it  again  ?  —  ceremony !  Adat  here,  adat 
there!  Oh,  ceremony!"  And  the  Sultan,  with  a 
whimsical  groan  which  ended  in  a  laugh,  wagged 
his  head  ruefully,  like  a  brown  Henry  V.  "  Cere 
mony  !  —  Suppose  I  call  you  Bowman :  will  you 
call  me  plain  Rama  ?  Let 's  talk  simply,  you 
know.  Of  course,  my  real  name  is  Sri  Rama  Vic- 
rama  Sangsaperba,  Souria  Alem,  and  so  on ;  and 
I'm  sultan  of  —  no  matter  —  a  place  you  never 
heard  of,  up  north,  across  the  Line." 

David,  bowing,  smiled  with  sudden  enlighten 
ment.  All  the  while  his  memory  had  been  groping 
and  striving;  and  now  he  recalled  where,  many 
months  ago,  many  miles  away,  he  had  seen  this 
olive  countenance  with  its  curved  lines,  by  turns 
so  mobile  and  so  impassive,  so  clouded  in  mourn 
ful  pride  or  alight  with  boyish  pleasure. 

"If  you  wish  it,"  he  replied.  "As  a  matter 
of  fact,  though,  I  could  name  your  kingdom  up 
there.  I  saw  you  once,  not  incognito.  Do  you  re 
member,  at  the  Hongkong  races,  an  ugly  little 
gray  gelding  named  Chop- Chop  ?" 

The  Sultan  widened  his  great  eyes.  He  gave  a 
subdued  cry. 

"Remember  ?"  His  laugh  sounded  like  a  mel 
low  bell.  "My  Chop-Chop  ?  Why,  that  pony 


THE  WRITTEN  STONE  133 

beat  Bintang,  my  roan  stallion,  by  half  a  head ! 
Never  enjoyed  a  better  surprise  in  my  life !  Re 
member  ?  I  bought  Chop-Chop  next  day,  just  for 
that.  Happy  Valley  meeting,  two  years  ago."  All 
clouds  had  left  the  Sultan's  face.  He  talked  in  a 
low,  even,  melodious  cadence,  too  polite  for  eager 
ness  ;  but  his  curved  lips  quivered  gleefully,  and 
his  fine  white  teeth  flashed.  "  I  bought  the  horse 
from  a  little  chap  —  let  me  see  —  a  little  chap 
named  Pryce." 

"  Right."  David  joined  his  laugh,  for  the  royal 
animation  was  catching.  "  I  got  Pryce  that  pony, 
from  the  North  of  China,  —  snapped  him  out  of 
a  herd  of  griffins." 

His  companion  flung  dignity  and  custom  so  far 
to  the  winds  as  to  pat  him  on  the  elbow. 

"No !  Did  you  ?"  The  ruler  of  men  had  van 
ished;  in  his  place  stood  a  delighted  lover  of 
horses.  "You  discovered  my  Chop-Chop  ?  You 
can  always  be  proud  of  that !  —  I  say,  Bowman, 
you'll  have  to  stay  over  with  me,  down  here,  and 
see  me  through  this  affair.  I  was  being  bored  flat. 
You  must  stay!" 

Sri  Rama  Vicrama  had  somehow,  quietly  and 
decorously,  slipped  his  black  silken  cuff,  heavy 
with  crusted  gold,  under  David's  plain  sleeve  of 
white  drill ;  and  with  the  same  gentle  insistence, 
had  begun  pressing  forward,  to  where  the  alley 
of  moss  opened  among  the  leaves. 


134  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

At  the  risk  of  discourtesy,  David  hung  back. 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  protested,  "that  we  must  n't 
forget.  The  robbery,  you  see,  and  this  fellow 
Rosario.  You  said —  He  can  place  you  in  a 
trying  position?" 

His  companion  unlocked  arms,  halted,  and 
swore  a  round  oath  by  the  name  of  the  Prophet. 

"  Can  ?  The  beggar  has,  already !"  His  High 
ness  remained  silent  for  a  time,  frowning  at  the 
sunlit  water.  "Horses,"  he  declared,  from  out 
this  meditation,  "  horses  drive  everything  else  out 
of  my  head,  you  know."  Presently  he  turned, 
with  a  negligent  but  gracious  air,  inviting  David 
to  follow.  "Come  inside  here,  till  I  show  you 
this  matter." 

Erect  and  lithe,  with  a  swaying  gait  in  which 
every  movement  was  a  piece  of  regal  composure, 
he  entered  the  gap  in  the  waringin  grove,  and 
began  slowly  to  thread  a  winding  path  among  the 
branches.  David  came  after,  wondering.  Sandals 
and  boots  alike  trod  silently  in  deep  moss,  delicate 
as  peach-bloom,  inimitably  green.  The  pleasant 
odor  of  the  moss,  at  each  bruising  footfall,  rose 
like  virtue  under  adversity,  in  the  immemorial 
comparison;  and  through  it,  steeping  the  cool 
heart  of  the  wood,  drifted  the  alluring  smell  of 
fresh  water,  and  all  those  dewy  fragrances  which 
hover  about  fresh  water,  —  from  roots,  from 
small  hidden  blossoms,  from  leaves  long  chilled 


THE  WRITTEN  STONE  135 

by  the  night,  and  now  stirring  in  early  sun 
light. 

"  Here,"  said  the  Sultan,  after  a  final  turn  of 
the  maze.  "One  moment,  please." 

It  seemed  as  fitting  as  an  act  of  ritual,  that  he 
should  lower  his  voice,  and  that,  pausing  where 
the  moss  spread  wide  in  the  green  carpet  of  a 
fairy  ring,  he  should  put  off  the  sandals  from  his 
feet.  The  two  men  faced  a  circular  bower,  walled 
with  heavy  leaves,  among  which  twined  and 
twisted,  like  bootlaces  and  torn  basket-work, 
long  creepers  and  banyan  roots  all  furred  with 
brilliant  moss.  The  place  contained  three  things : 
a  mixture  of  light  and  shadow  as  mottled  as  the 
Deer  Fight  on  the  Sultan's  skirt;  a  huge  bundle 
of  mossy  pillars,  great  and  small  contorted  alike, 
where  an  aged  banyan  reared  its  trunk ;  and  close 
under  this,  coated  with  the  same  living  green,  the 
long,  low  mound  of  a  grave. 

"Here,"  continued  the  Sultan,  quietly  as  be 
fore,  "  is  the  tomb  of  my  ancestor." 

Behind  his  back,  David,  with  the  awkward 
ness  of  a  Western  barbarian,  was  tugging  off  his 
boots.  The  speaker  turned,  and  caught  him  in 
the  act. 

"I  did  n't  expect  that."  The  heavy  Malayan 
lips  parted  in  a  smile,  but  not  of  ridicule.  The 
liquid  Malayan  eyes  conveyed  more  than  the 
words.  "I  —  Well,  I'll  remember  it,  Bowman." 


136  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

Silent  again,  they  stood  beside  each  other  in  the 
woodland  sepulchre.  Overhead,  a  fitful  series  of 
squeaks,  petulant  and  evil,  disturbed  their  soli 
tude.  David,  looking  up  into  the  sunlight,  saw 
the  banyan  top  shining  leathery-brown  aloft. 
What,  from  the  lake,  he  had  taken  for  dead  leaves 
on  a  blasted  tree,  was  a  sleeping  multitude  of 
flying-foxes,  that  hung  head  downward  in  pon 
derous  hanks  and  bundles.  It  was  strange  to  see, 
against  the  blue  sky,  a  pinnacle  of  arborescence 
that  was  not  vegetable,  but  animal. 

"  They  won't  overhear  us."  The  Sultan  glanced 
up  at  the  giant  bats,  with  a  smile ;  then  lower 
ing  his  eyes,  regarded  soberly  the  mound  below 
the  banyan  pillars.  "And  I  can  trust  you.  So 
here 's  my  secret."  He  pointed  at  the  grave. 
"What  do  you  see  there?" 

The  burial-place  was  ancient,  for  even  in  that 
profound  shelter  its  contour  showed  sunken, 
worn  by  the  attrition  of  years.  Midway,  a  slight 
convexity  heaved  the  moss,  —  the  outline  of  a 
round  stone,  like  a  buckler  smoothly  covered 
with  green  velvet. 

"A  stone,"  replied  David. 

The  Sultan  nodded  his  fez. 

"A  stone,"  he  echoed.  "That  stone  is  written 
upon,  like  the  Batu  Tulis ;  but  not  with  the  cursed 
inscription  of  idolaters.  It  lies  above  my  great 
ancestor,  Sri  Rama  Vicrama,  called  the  Sultan 


THE   WRITTEN  STONE          137 

Muda,  Who  Held  the  World  on  his  Knees ;  king 
of  an  old  country '  under  the  wind/  as  we  say.  He 
swept  the  idolaters  from  the  face  of  this  land, 
with  Raden  Patah,  many  lifetimes  ago." 

He  paused.  A  flying-fox,  jostled  from  its  high 
dormitory,  fell  with  a  snarling  cry,  caught  some 
lower  branch,  and  swayed  to  rest  in  a  subsiding 
flutter. 

"Every  third  year,  on  this  day,  at  sunrise,  his 
descendant  comes  to  the  island,  and  turns  the 
stone.  No  matter  from  how  far.  The  moss  will 
be  dead,  you  see,  from  the  under  side,  and  with 
ered.  So  all  men  living  by  this  lake,  when  they 
look  on  the  bare  face  of  the  stone,  may  know  that 
the  sons  of  Sri  Rama  Vicrama  live  and  remem 
ber;  and  that  the  true  Sultan  has  come  at  his 
appointed  time." 

The  speaker's  face  glowed  with  sombre  pride. 

"For  in  their  hearts,"  he  added,  "secretly,  in 
their  hearts,  I  am  their  true  Sultan." 

The  flying-foxes,  overhead,  measured  another 
interval  with  a  faint  squeak  or  two,  a  fainter 
rustling  among  the  high  leaves.  When  young 
Rama  spoke,  his  voice  trembled  with  rising 
anger. 

"Not  one  of  them  would  speak  of  me,  outside. 
Not  one,  Bowman.  They  all  know  I  am  here, 
and  they  are  glad.  But  this  thief  of  yours  —  " 
He  broke  off  in  contempt.  "  Stable  talk  is  easily 


138  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

overheard.  And  now,  if  your  thief  goes  to  the 
Regent,  —  to  this  slave,  this  Javanese  kalang, 
master  of  concubines,  who  calls  himself  the  Nail 
of  the  Universe  —  chiss!"  Rama  shook  his  head, 
bitterly.  "  The  devil  to  pay,  then !  —  our  little 
play-actor,  the  Regent,  flaring  up  among  his 
women  here,  —  complaints,  telegrams ;  a  Dutch 
Resident  arriving  in  all  his  glory,  to  play  he  's 
discovered  plots  and  rebellions  —  Oh,  damn 
them!" 

David  would  have  spoken. 

"No,  no,"  continued  the  Sultan,  more  calmly. 
"It's  not  your  fault,  Bowman.  But  you  see :  your 
stable  parrot  can  make  trouble  for  me.  I'm  here 
on  the  —  what  you  call  it  ?  —  on  the  sly." 

He  considered  for  a  moment,  dismissed  the 
matter  with  a  wave  of  the  hand,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  once  more  upon  the  grave  and  its  green 
velvet  pall. 

"Well,"  he  said  tranquilly,  "here  is  the  stone 
to  be  turned." 

He  stooped  for  an  obeisance,  brief  but  reverent. 
Then,  removing  from  a  hollow  in  the  moss  a 
votive  handful  of  white  frangipani  blossoms,  he 
knelt,  and  began  with  slim,  strong  fingers  to  feel 
for  the  circumference  of  the  stone.  A  singular 
change  crossed  his  features.  He  sat  upright, 
rigid  from  knee  to  fez. 

"Bowman!    What  dog — "    The  green  light 


THE   WRITTEN  STONE  139 

and  shade,  flickering  in  the  banyan  chapel, 
shifted  curiously  on  a  face  gray  and  still  with 
wrath.  "What  dog  has  —  "  Again  he  choked. 
"  Do  you  see  ?  The  stone  has  been  —  already ! 
Before  me  — before  the  time!" 

David,  though  chafing  to  be  gone,  had  stood 
by,  with  no  choice  but  to  watch.  The  Sultan's 
cry,  and  that  strange  look  of  petrified  anger,  now 
brought  him  quickly  beside  the  mound. 

Circling  the  green  buckler  of  the  imbedded 
stone,  ran  a  tawny  line  drawn  in  fresh  earth,  a 
crack  no  wider  than  a  thread. 

"What  devil  did  this?"  whispered  the  Sul 
tan  to  himself,  furiously.  Furiously  bending,  he 
thrust  his  fingers  into  the  cracked  moss,  and 
pried.  The  red  earth  gaped.  Rama  caught  a 
fresh  grip,  heaved,  tugged  at  full  stretch.  "  What 
devil  —  " 

The  heavy  stone,  in  shape  a  double  convex, 
tilted  and  fell  clear  of  its  socket,  disclosing  an 
under  surface  bare  and  brown,  chiseled  with 
writing  either  in  Arabic  or  in  Kawi,  shallow,  yet 
clear  as  in  the  days  when  the  great  kingdom 
Majapahit  fell. 

"What  is  this?" 

David  and  Prince  Rama  stared  together,  — 
first  into  the  earthen  socket,  then  at  each  other, 
then  down  again  like  men  who  had  found  a 
treasure. 


140  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

Rosario's  cunning  had  its  limit.  He  had  not 
known  the  story  of  this  grave.  The  cavity,  a  deep 
bowl  filled  with  quivering  sunlight  and  black  pat 
tern  of  leaves,  held  also  a  small  packet  wrapped 
in  manila  paper,  sealed  with  red  wax. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WAITING 

RAMA  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?"  His  eyes  were  blaz 
ing,  his  cheeks  even  paler  than  before.  "More 
insolence  from  that  sais  of  yours  ?" 

He  rose  with  the  packet  in  his  hand,  and  seeing 
David's  involuntary  motion  to  take  it,  drew  back 
haughtily. 

David  made  a  conciliatory  gesture. 

"My  thief,"  he  assented.  "Rosario.  That  is 
what  he  stole  from  the  lady.  He  chose  to  hide  it 
here." 

"Hide  it?  In  the  Sultan  Muda's  grave?  Un 
der  the  Written  Stone  ?"  Rama  swore  in  a  pas 
sionate  whisper,  and  drew  breath  with  a  rasping 
sound.  "The  dog!  Let  us  go  — " 

He  turned  violently,  as  though  to  rush  out 
through  the  banyan  corridor ;  but  checking  that 
impulse,  flung  the  packet  down  among  the  frangi- 
pani  blossoms,  bent  over  the  grave,  lifted  the 
stone,  and  carefully  replaced  it  in  the  socket,  so 
that  the  written  side  lay  uppermost,  bare  and 
brown,  like  a  dull  scarab  set  in  emerald  fur.  This 


142  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

done,  he  snatched  up  the  offensive  packet,  and 
stood  erect,  breathing  hard  from  anger  and 
exertion. 

"There's  more  about  this,  Mr.  Bowman,"  he 
declared  coldly.  "I  would  believe  you,  but  —  I 
do  not  understand.  Between  the  pair  of  you, 
this  tomb — "  His  voice  trembled;  he  waited. 
"Something  has  been  done  here  that  I  do  not 
forget." 

With  impatient  fingers,  he  plucked  at  the  blue 
and  white  fibre,  to  rip  the  seals  from  the  packet. 

"We  shall  see,"  he  muttered.  "We  shall  see 
why." 

David  caught  his  hands  in  time,  and  held 
them. 

"You  shan't  open  that." 

The  young  Sultan,  amazed,  incredulous,  jerked 
backward  suddenly  with  all  the  might  in  his  body. 
He  remained  a  prisoner,  as  though  manacled. 
Thus,  for  a  moment,  the  two  men  stood  locked  at 
arm's  length  in  a  dangerous  silence,  eying  each 
other  like  boxers  breaking  from  a  clinch. 

David  let  go,  and  stepped  back  a  pace  with  a 
hostile  bow. 

"I  beg  your  Highness's  pardon,"  said  he. 
"But  you  were  forgetting." 

The  Sultan's  little  brown  hand  flew  to  the  ruby 
hilt  at  his  sash.  The  pupils  of  his  eyes  con 
tracted.  His  whole  frame  quivered  strongly. 


WAITING  143 

Then,  with  visible  effort,  he  drew  his  hand  away 
from  the  kriss. 

"For  much  less  than  that,"  he  panted,  "a  man 
might  amok.'9 

David  again  bowed,  without  compromise. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  answered  dryly.  "But  you 
forgot.  The  packet 's  not  yours,  nor  mine  either. 
It  belongs  to  a  lady." 

The  Sultan's  red  lips  pouted  in  scorn. 

"  Oh !"  he  retorted  lightly,  "  as  for  that  — " 

His  fingers  closed  again  on  the  Japanese  twine. 

"I  don't  know  what  may  be  the  custom,"  said 
David  quietly,  "among  Moslem  princes;  but 
plain  white  men  would  no  more  do  what  you're 
doing  now,  than  they  would  open  a  grave." 

The  Sultan  looked  up,  and  stared.  Silence 
filled  the  small  green  bower  of  light  and  shadow, 
—  a  silence  brief  yet  profound,  in  which,  while 
the  men  stood  face  to  face,  there  was  enacted  the 
old  struggle  for  comprehension  between  East  and 
West. 

"Really?"  Rama's  anger  slowly  changed  to 
perplexity.  "You  feel  so  ?"  A  new  light  played 
in  his  eyes,  a  twinkle  of  humorous  tolerance,  as 
when  a  subtle  mind  has  met  some  fathomless  yet 
amiable  simplicity.  "You  really  feel  so  about 
women  ?  I  have  heard  you  make  them  a  great 
deal  too  important." 

He  smiled  pleasantly,  raised  the  edge  of  his 


144  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

black  tunic,  and  stuck  the  packet,  dagger-wise, 
under  the  knot  of  his  sarong. 

"I  remember,"  he  mused.  "My  English  tutor 
thought  like  that.  Now  we  —  we  have  another 
saying:  'Woman  rules  her  man  till  dawn,  but 
may  not  jerk  his  bridle-rein  all  day.'  You  let 
your  women  fly  about,  and  talk,  at  great  ex 
pense." 

Stooping,  he  gathered  the  white  frangipani  into 
an  orderly  cluster,  which  he  placed  at  the  head  of 
the  grave.  After  a  silent  and  prolonged  salaam,  he 
wheeled  about,  restored  to  his  former  composure. 

"Shall  we  go  ashore  now?"  he  inquired 
blandly. 

"But  my  packet?"  rejoined  the  stubborn 
David.  "  What  happens  ? ' ' 

"Quite  safe."  Rama  patted  his  sarong-knot 
calmly.  "  Let  us  wait.  I  must  talk  to  your  thief." 

He  crossed  the  clearing,  and  slipped  his  feet 
into  the  tiny  sandals. 

"Bowman,"  he  added,  turning,  "I  like  you 
immensely.  You're  a  fighting  man,  as  I  am,  my 
self.  We  were  not  afraid  of  each  other,  just  now." 
He  motioned  toward  the  lane.  "  Come.  Let 's 
not  fuss  about  a  trifle." 

He  waited  until  David's  boots  were  on,  then 
led  the  way  back  through  the  grove,  treading 
silently  over  the  moss  with  the  same  retarded, 
swaying  gait,  proud  and  deliberate  as  the  motion 


WAITING  145 

of  a  tiger.  David,  watching  while  he  followed, 
was  divided  between  strong  liking  and  equally 
strong  impatience.  This  cool  young  prince  was 
not  to  be  hurried ;  and  meantime,  somewhere  on 
the  broadside  of  Java,  Mary  Arnot  was  kept 
waiting. 

They  gained  the  dazzling  shore  of  the  island. 
The  Sultan  raised  his  arm.  A  stir  passed  through 
the  varicolored  group  on  the  distant  jetty,  and  at 
once  the  threefold  bundle  of  canoes  detached 
itself  from  the  shade  of  land,  to  glide  rapidly 
across  the  water,  with  many  quick  paddles  glis 
tening,  and  its  golden  thatch  bright  in  the  sun. 
Enchanted  stillness  covered  lake  and  mountains, 
while  the  craft  brushed  in  among  the  reeds. 
Rama  and  David  embarked,  silent  as  knights 
entering  a  magic  shallop.  Then  back  toward 
land  they  slid,  to  the  drip  of  shining  blades,  over 
a  pale,  hot  mirror  deep  as  the  inverted  sky. 

At  the  jetty,  the  young  Moslem  captain  met 
them,  lowering  his  primrose  turban  in  a  deep 
sembah.  Some  new  and  greater  anxiety  lined  his 
face. 

"Dato  Hasan,"  said  the  Sultan,  climbing  forth 
upon  the  stones,  and  halting,  erect  and  grave 
among  his  courtiers ;  "  Dato  Hasan,  I  have  made 
you  the  Bantara  of  my  person,  and  given  you  my 
sword  to  bear."  He  glanced  at  a  long  sword  of 
ceremony,  which  the  young  man  carried  on  his 


146  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

right  shoulder.  "  Bear  it  worthily.  Suffer  not  the 
sword  to  rust,  nor  its  eyes  to  be  eaten  out." 

Dato  Hasan  listened  humbly  to  this  formula, 
and  bowed  low. 

"Where  is  your  prisoner?"  continued  Rama. 
"Set  him  before  me." 

The  sword-bearer  raised  a  woeful  counte 
nance. 

"Turn  aside  your  anger,"  he  stammered. 
"The  fellow  had  not  the  strength  of  devils,  but 
the  cunning.  He  overthrew  his  guards,  Abdur 
rahman  and  Majang  Koro.  He  fled."  Hasan 
pointed  up  the  marshy  path  that  struggled  in 
land.  "Like  a  wild  colt,  into  the  mountains  — " 

"Enough!"  The  Sultan's  fez  flashed  upward 
and  backward.  He  seemed  visibly  taller.  "Sa 
tan,"  he  cried  in  fury,  "  Satan  has  been  busy  with 
my  morning!" 

Dato  Hasan,  nursing  the  long  symbol  of  his 
office,  drew  back,  humiliated,  among  the  silken 
courtiers,  who  shifted  uneasily  and  hung  their 
heads  in  disgrace.  Their  master,  shaking  with 
passion,  poured  out  a  torrent  of  words  from 
which  they  shrank  without  a  murmur,  without  so 
much  as  an  eyelid  raised  in  defense. 

At  the  very  height  and  flaming  climax  of  this 
outburst,  David  moved  audaciously  alongside, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  till  his  lips  approached  the 
royal  ear. 


WAITING  147 

He  whispered. 

A  shock  of  astonishment  ran  throughout  the 
whole  retinue.  The  warlike  nobles,  as  though  a 
charm  had  snapped,  raised  their  heads,  stared  in 
wonder,  questioned  each  other  askance.  The 
Sultan  himself,  cut  short  in  a  savage  epigram, 
had  wheeled  about  with  his  blackest  frown,  and 
lips  curling  as  if  to  bite.  His  features,  after  one 
droll  conflict  of  opposite  and  bewildered  emo 
tions,  relaxed  gradually  into  a  smile. 

"Of  course,"  he  whispered,  nodding  to  his 
bold  adviser.  "How  stupid!  He'll  come  back 
for  it,  of  course.  I  never  thought  of  that.  To 
night;  we'll  catch  him  ourselves,  Bowman.  By 
the  grave  —  " 

His  smile  altered,  in  a  crafty  fashion  that  pro 
mised  badly  for  Rosario.  He  stood  musing.  His 
followers,  now  that  the  storm  had  passed,  took 
heart  enough  to  change  their  attitudes,  with  mur 
murs,  and  the  rustle  of  silks;  their  dark  eyes 
meanwhile  studying,  in  sullen  curiosity,  this  un 
known  white  Laksamana  who  could  tame  their 
lord. 

"Ahis!"  cried  the  Sultan.  "  Go  find  your  pris 
oner!  Lalu!  Scour  the  mountains!  Bring  him 
again!" 

At  one  austere  wave  of  his  hand,  the  courtiers 
dispersed,  pausing  only  to  hide  their  gilt  umbrel 
las  in  the  bush. 


148  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

"They'll  never  catch  him,  you  know,"  laughed 
Rama.  Mischievous  as  a  boy,  he  watched  them 
file  away  through  the  marshy  path,  to  scatter  like 
skirmishers  among  the  distant  trees.  "Your 
plan,  Bowman,  promises  better  sport.  Let  them 
chase  about.  The  sun's  hot.  Serves  them  right." 

He  beckoned  imperiously  to  the  young  Dato 
Hasan,  who  stood  waiting  beside  the  bamboo 
tent. 

"This  finery,"  said  he,  "belies  my  description 
in  the  passport  card.  It  might  be  awkward  to 
explain.  Come.  Help  me  change." 

Followed  by  the  discomfited  sword-bearer,  he 
left  the  jetty,  and  disappeared  into  a  neighboring 
clump  of  bamboo.  David  sat  in  the  pavilion,  and 
raged  with  helpless  impatience.  Time,  unheeded 
in  Oriental  transactions,  dragged  by  to  the  low 
sound  of  lake-water  lapping  among  the  deserted 
boats.  Morning  became  noon.  When  at  last  the 
Sultan  came  forth  again,  he  was  in  plain  dress, 
without  ornament  or  weapon,  —  black  fez,  severe 
white  tunic,  and  a  skirt  painted  in  lozenges  of 
burnt  orange  and  dull  brown.  By  this  sober 
transformation,  he  appeared  like  some  young 
Arab  merchant,  uncommonly  proud  and  hand 
some.  Dato  Hasan  came  slowly  after,  directing 
three  servants  who  carried  baskets. 

"Bowman,  this  is  a  pleasant  place,"  drawled 
the  prince,  stooping  to  enter  the  small  pavilion. 


WAITING  149 

"  Let  us  eat  beside  the  lake,  where  it's  cool.  Here 
comes  tiffin.  Plain  fare,  you  know.  I  'm  not  a 
Christian,  so  I  don't  drink." 

Tiffin  they  had,  accordingly,  in  their  shelter  of 
clean  thatch,  an  airy  chamber  walled  with  spa 
cious  and  glowing  landscapes  —  the  lake  asleep 
under  a  fierce  white  noon,  volcanoes  notching 
the  lofty  horizon  with  dark  green  pinnacles  —  a 
world  of  stillness,  poignant  color,  and  great  dis 
tances,  set  in  panels  of  bamboo  framework,  but 
pictured  in  limitless  sunlight  and  the  incompar 
able  purity  of  mountain  air.  Barefoot  hill-men, 
reverently  mute,  glided  into  and  from  the  pavilion, 
kneeling  to  serve  the  dishes,  —  pastoral  dishes 
of  rice,  bamboo  pith,  and  savory  beans ;  of  wood- 
birds  and  young  water-fowl  stewed  in  cocoanut 
milk ;  of  tiny  red  fishes  heaped  in  curry ;  of  pine 
apples  from  the  hot  lowlands,  and  artful  jel 
lies  disguised  as  fruit,  with  fresh  rind  seemingly 
intact.  Ashore,  from  time  to  time,  Dato  Hasan's 
yellow  turban  shone  like  a  great  blossom  among 
the  roadside  trees,  as  he  craned  out  to  guard  the 
approaches. 

"And  now,"  yawned  the  Sultan  at  last,  "now, 
Bowman,  it  is  the  hour  to  sleep."  Throughout 
tiffin,  he  had  discoursed  lazily  of  horses,  their 
speed,  their  ancestry,  their  exploits  in  Poona, 
Buitenzorg,  Mosul,  or  Shanghai;  but  more  and 
more  his  voice  had  drooped,  his  eyes  grown  heavy. 


150  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

"  To  sleep,  eh  ?  It  is  very  pleasant.  You,  too,  will 
be  wishing  to  sleep." 

David's  temper,  long  smouldering,  broke  out 
in  flame. 

"I  want  to  be  off,"  he  retorted  angrily.  "  Just 
that,  and  no  more.  Hand  over  what  belongs  to 
me,  and  let  me  go." 

"Dear  fellow,"  replied  his  host,  with  a  smile, 
friendly  but  obstinate;  "dear  fellow,  there  's  no 
such  hurry.  Too  hot,  besides." 

The  speaker  curled  himself  into  the  shadiest 
corner  of  the  pavilion,  stretched  his  limbs  lux 
uriously  as  a  cat,  subsided  on  the  matting,  and 
with  cheek  upon  arm,  dropped  at  once  into  the 
sweet  oblivion  of  Eastern  slumber. 

David  sat  and  listened  to  his  breathing,  the 
only  sound  among  the  mountains.  The  longer  he 
listened,  the  more  he  grew  enraged.  It  quickly 
became  unbearable. 

"Rama!"  he  cried. 

The  sleeper  made  no  stir. 

"  Rama ! ' '  David  brought  down  his  heel  so  heav 
ily  that  the  pavilion  shook.  "  Where '  s  my  packet  ? ' ' 

The  royal  sluggard  allowed  one  eye  to  open, 
and  blissfully  to  close. 

"I  don't  remember."  The  words  died  in  a 
broken  whisper,  a  blur  of  meaningless  and  meas 
ureless  content.  "Wait  till —  catch  that  fellow 
— you  go  to  sleep,  too." 


WAITING  151 

It  was  useless.  A  caravan  of  packets  would  not 
summon  this  Malay  from  his  afternoon  stupor. 
David  might  glower  as  he  pleased ;  he  saw  him 
self  at  a  deadlock,  simple  yet  effective,  not  to  be 
broken  either  by  force  or  by  entreaty.  He  could 
only  wrap  himself  in  patience,  wait,  stick  closer 
to  Rama  than  a  brother,  seize  a  more  fortunate 
mood,  watch  the  chance.  He  chose  another  cor 
ner  of  the  floor,  and  stretching  out,  resigned  him 
self  to  smoke.  Even  the  black  Paiacombo  tobacco 
brought  no  comfort ;  it  might  not  cloud  that  vista, 
all  too  clear  and  dismal,  into  which  his  busy  plans 
unfolded. 

"Suppose  I  do  get  it  back?"  he  pondered. 
"  Suppose  I  do  overtake  her  ?  It 's  all  for  the 
other  man.  Gerald:  that  was  his  name.  Some 
thing  she  '11  cry  over,  and  keep  the  rest  of  her 
life.  And  my  part  —  that 's  all.  '  Thank  you  so 
much;  good-by!'  " 

He  flung  away  his  cigarette.  It  fell  into  the 
lake  with  a  slight  hiss.  Rama's  quiet  breathing 
succeeded,  tranquil  accompaniment  to  vexing 
thought. 

Thanks,  and  good-by;  that  indeed  was  the 
end  of  the  vista.  All  for  the  other  man  —  the 
handsome  stranger  in  the  hut  —  Villameres's 
Englishman.  For  another  man,  now  dead. 
Thanks,  and  good-by.  On  the  heels  of  this, 
why  should  there  steal  in  (welcome  and  unwel- 


152  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

come,  like  a  bit  of  solace  he  had  not  asked  for) 
the  memory  of  her  eyes  in  the  hill-garden  and  by 
the  roadside  ?  They  were  not  dark,  after  all,  but 
blue  —  a  deep  and  changing  blue. 

When  he  woke,  the  lake  was  of  that  color,  and 
the  evening  air,  and  all  the  mountains  but  a  few 
far  peaks  tipped  with  amber  sunset. 

"Si/am."  The  Sultan's  voice  rose,  meditative, 
through  the  dusk.  "  Silam.  It  is  twilight." 

Propped  on  elbow,  Rama  lay  staring  mourn 
fully  over  the  bamboo  rail,  far  out  across  the 
evening  water.  His  face,  his  pose,  in  that  uncer 
tain  light,  were  full  of  unutterable  weariness  and 
sadness.  He  seemed  a  mystical  ancient  figure  of 
Melancholy,  questioning  the  world  in  vain. 

"Alone."  He  was  murmuring  to  himself. 
"The  soul  of  man  is  alone — like  a  bird  flying 
on  the  face  of  dark  waters." 

He  turned  slowly,  to  find  David  watching.  His 
face  brightened  somewhat. 

"Awake,  Bowman?"  He  roused,  but  lan 
guidly.  "Sleep  is  a  great  mystery.  It  always 
leaves  me  sad,  you  know.  '  In  sleep  I  feel  myself 
to  be  a  mortal,'  —  so  said  Sikander  of  the  Two 
Horns.  What  is  it  you  call  him  ?  Alexander  the 
Great  ?  —  Ah,  that  must  have  been  a  man !  His 
life  had  a  purpose." 

The  lapping  water  played  an  interlude  round 
their  pavilion. 


WAITING  153 

"What  were  we  going  to  do?"  The  Sultan 
puckered  his  brows.  "  I  forget." 

"  Catch  my  thief  on  the  island,"  David  replied. 
"The  thief  who  lifted  your  Written  Stone." 

Rama  gathered  himself  upright,  and  stretched 
his  arms. 

"True,"  he  yawned.  "That  is  better  than 
nothing.  Not  much.  But  let  us  go." 

At  the  door  he  paused,  and  gave  some  order  to 
a  squatting  guard,  who  rose  and  flitted  ghost-like 
from  the  jetty. 

"That  leaves  us  free,"  he  explained.  "I  sent 
my  men  home.  Have  we  matches  ?" 

The  two  companions  chose  a  light  canoe,  and 
paddled  slowly  out  into  the  lake,  munching  bis 
cuits  for  their  supper.  Overhead,  where  the  sun 
set  faintly  tinged  the  upper  air,  the  flying-foxes 
wavered  in  erratic  flight ;  the  vesper  chanting  of 
the  Koran  made  its  mournful  circuit  among  the 
villages;  a  few  ruddy  points  of  lamplight,  skirt 
ing  the  shore,  blinked  slowly  behind  trees,  or 
quickly  behind  the  moving  legs  of  unseen  bearers ; 
dogs  barked,  and  voices  of  men  traveling  some 
mountain  trail  half  a  day's  journey  upward,  came 
floating  down  in  fragments  almost  articulate. 
Presently,  dead  ahead,  the  island  of  the  old  Sul 
tan  Muda  reared  from  dusky  indigo  its  crag  of 
darkness. 

With  David's  help,  the  truant  prince  hid  their 


154  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

canoe  deep  among  bushes.  Then  through  the 
mossy  lane  both  men  stole  into  a  deeper  black 
ness,  the  heart  of  the  island. 

"Here's  fun."  Rama  crouched  under  the 
corded  banyan  fringe.  His  pessimism  had  van 
ished  at  prospect  of  a  night's  entertainment. 
"Wait,"  he  whispered  grimly,  "till  I  catch  that 
confounded  lip-lap!" 

They  waited.  Sounds  of  evening  diminished 
into  hush  of  night.  The  banyan  covert,  deep  as  a 
mine-shaft,  held  at  the  top  a  shimmering  pallor 
studded  with  tropic  stars ;  at  bottom,  only  a  dense 
perfume  of  frangipani,  and  a  white  blur  where 
the  flowers  themselves,  at  the  grave-head  across 
the  circle,  caught  the  dregs  of  starlight.  Lake, 
populous  valley,  woods  to  the  least  tree-point, 
mountains  to  the  farthest  crater,  slumbered  in  a 
universal  calm.  Not  a  paddle  could  strike  the 
water,  without  being  heard  inside  this  leafy  mau 
soleum. 

No  one  came.  The  air  grew  colder.  Time 
passed.  A  few  light  ripples  disturbed  the  shore, 
and  lightly  ended.  Then  stillness  closed  in, 
heavier  than  before. 

Suddenly  the  Sultan  leaned  over  athwart  the 
gloom. 

"  Some  one,"  he  breathed  in  David's  ear.  "  By 
the  tree.  Quiet.  I  felt  him." 

David  listened,  leaning  forward,  and  straining 


WAITING  155 

his  eyes.  No  boat  had  crossed  the  lake,  near  or 
far.  There  could  not  be  a  third  presence  on  the 
island. 

Yet,  as  he  watched  without  belief,  a  moving 
shadow  blotted  the  whiteness  of  the  frangipani. 
Something  had  crept  between  him  and  the 
grave. 

"Now!"  whispered  the  Sultan;  then  aloud: 
"Come  on!" 

Together  they  sprang  up  and  out,  like  men 
tackling  at  football.  Without  a  sound,  the 
shadow-bulk  rushed  past  them  and  was  gone.  A 
flying  sprinkle  of  drops  fell  warm  on  David's  out 
stretched  hand.  Through  the  branches  went  a 
noise  like  the  passage  of  a  sudden  gust. 

"Hantu!"  Rama  gave  a  stifled  cry,  and 
clutched  David's  arm  in  all  the  panic  of  one  who 
acknowledges  the  powers  of  darkness.  "  A  light ! 
Alight!" 

David,  tugging  out  his  box,  struck  a  match. 
It  flared,  blinding  them  at  first,  then  revealing 
the  dark  ring  of  banyan  walls,  empty.  There 
was  nothing  —  nothing  but  thin  vertical  shadows 
writhing  like  knotted  worms,  where  in  one  place 
the  dangling  roots,  green-painted  with  moss,  were 
swaying  as  a  reed  curtain  sways  when  violently 
parted. 

The  match  burned  out.  David  struck  another, 
to  find  the  Sultan  stooping  anxiously  over  the 


156  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

grave,  and  beckoning.  His  olive-gray  cheek  shone 
wet,  as  though  brushed  with  an  aspergill. 

"Bring  your  match.   I  thought  I  saw  — " 

Together,  by  the  streaming  splinter  of  light, 
they  bent  toward  the  brown  disk  of  the  Written 
Stone. 

"Whatever  it  was,"  declared  Rama  solemnly, 
"it  had  been  swimming!" 

The  drops  on  his  cheek,  the  drops  that  glis 
tened  on  the  back  of  David's  hand,  were  plain 
water.  Stamped  in  water,  on  the  brown  surface 
of  the  stone,  was  the  print  of  a  naked  foot,  the 
great  toe  twisted  at  right  angles  like  an  outspread 
thumb. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    DESSA 

"THAT'S  no  man's  foot."  The  Sultan  stood  for 
a  moment,  very  pale,  his  round  eyes  bright  and 
scared.  The  curved  penciling  of  his  lips,  nostrils, 
and  brows  made  him  look  as  plaintive  and  ap 
pealing  as  a  girl.  "  What  is  it  ?  No  ape  ever  grew 
so  big  as  that." 

He  shivered.  The  match  went  out,  and 
dropped  a  red  glowworm  fibre  into  the  moss. 

"I  felt  it  pass,"  he  whispered,  moving  closer. 
"A  shadow,  Bowman.  A  wet  shadow.  Men 
tell  of  hantu,  like  the  river-ghost  of  Badang." 

His  groping  hand  met  David's,  and  caught 
hold  instantly. 

"Agh!  Your  fingers  are  wet,  too.  Let  us 
go  back.  This  grave  is  not  a  good  place,  at 
night." 

"That,"  said  David,  unwilling  to  give  ground, 
"was  no  more  a  ghost  than  you  are." 

"What  was  it,  then?"  whispered  the  other 
scornfully.  "  What  else  ?  " 

The  question  had  no  answer.  Angry  and  help 
less,  David  shook  his  head  in  the  dark. 


158  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  lamely.  "It's  a 
thing  that —  Oh,  the  story's  too  long!" 

The  Sultan  jerked  him  by  the  wrist. 

"  Come.  I  go  back  —  ashore.  I  will  face  any 
man  alive,  but  —  Come !  We  are  not  Badang,  to 
fight  with  wet  shadows!" 

David  held  off,  listening.  The  island  had  be 
come  a  solid  block  of  silence.  He  was  not  afraid 
of  hunting  shadows,  wet  or  dry;  but  to  thresh 
them  out  from  this  matted  thicket  of  leaves  and 
banyan  cordage,  by  the  light  of  a  dozen  matches, 
would  prove  an  idiot's  employment. 

"Let's  wait.    See  if  it  comes  back." 

Rama,  at  this  notion,  gave  a  little  gasp. 

"Not  for  anything,"  he  answered  fervently. 
"I've  had  enough.  Come!" 

David,  yielding,  allowed  himself  to  be  towed 
rapidly  through  the  blind  corridor,  and  out  upon 
the  open  shore  of  the  island.  Rama  neither 
ceased  pulling,  nor  unclasped  his  hand,  till  they 
had  stumbled  over  the  gunwale  of  their  canoe 
in  the  shrubbery ;  and  once  afloat,  he  plied  his 
paddle  with  a  racing  stroke,  fast  and  vicious. 
The  dugout  surged  across  velvet  blackness,  the 
waves  of  her  speed  shivering  the  reflected  stars, 
until  her  prow  bumped  the  jetty. 

Out  sprang  the  Sultan,  and  clapped  his  hands. 
Presently,  from  the  bushes  on  the  right,  there 
dodged  a  flaming  pair  of  torches,  that  streamed 


THE  DESSA  159 

low  in  the  draught  of  their  own  motion.  Two 
bronze  men  carried  them,  running  with  a  glint 
of  muscles  in  the  hurried  light,  as  though  twin 
statues  had  sprung  to  life,  and  revived  Athenian 
games  down  a  tossing  aisle  of  bamboo  shadows. 
They  approached,  halted,  and  bowed  low,  reveal 
ing  the  serious  brown  faces  of  Amat  and  Ali. 

The  Sultan  drew  his  first  long  breath  of  relief. 

"Now  then,"  he  commanded  cheerfully, 
"home  to  bed!" 

They  followed  the  torches,  winding  upward 
and  steeply  upward  under  whispering  trees,  in  a 
smooth  beaten  path;  through  plaited  bamboo 
gates,  at  last,  that  shone  like  woven  gold;  then 
among  the  woodland  huts  and  flowering  fruit- 
trees  of  a  small  dessa,  —  a  village  all  asleep  and 
motionless,  like  a  stage  background. 

"There's  your  house,  Bowman,"  declared  the 
Sultan  wearily.  He  pointed  to  a  neat  hutch  of 
basket-work,  fresh  and  yellow  among  its  tawny 
neighbors.  "  I  had  it  built  for  you  this  afternoon. 
Good-night."  He  turned  off,  but  paused.  "Oh, 
and  I  say, — my  Chinese  tailor's  going  to  make 
you  fresh  clothes  overnight.  Give  Amat  yours 
for  the  pattern.  Sleep  well !" 

The  parting  advice  was  easier  to  give  than  to 
follow.  David,  stretched  on  a  clean  new  cot  in 
his  tiny  chamber,  lay  wakeful  for  a  long  time, 
staring  through  the  open  door  at  a  band  of 


160  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

starlight  fringed  with  the  darkness  of  treetops. 
That  wet  imprint  on  the  old  Sultan's  grave,  the 
same  distorted  foot  which  twice  before  had 
daunted  him,  now  reared  in  the  memory  its 
threatening  symbol,  acute  and  vivid,  like  a  spot 
painfully  dancing  before  sun-blinded  eyes.  So 
this  danced  and  wavered  through  long  night 
thoughts,  fretting  and  obscuring  the  mind.  Da 
vid  saw  but  one  fact.  The  skipping  half-breed 
Rosario,  though  himself  harmless  as  a  parrot, 
took  on  a  sudden  grim  dignity;  he  no  longer 
figured  alone,  but  as  precursor  to  something 
without  shape  which  came  and  went  in  darkness, 
a  midnight  shadow,  dripping  like  a  water- wraith. 
Still,  where  lay  the  cause  ?  At  what  command, 
by  what  rites,  could  so  grinning  and  fatuous  an 
agent  summon  the  likeness  of  such  a  footprint  ? 

"Mary's well  out  of  this,"  thought  the  young 
man,  tossing  on  his  cot.  "Can't  even  call  her 
Mary,  can  I  ?  Not  ever.  Anyway,  glad  she  's 
not  here." 

Sleep,  at  last,  followed  this  conclusion.  And 
when  David  woke,  the  fresh  morning  sun  flick 
ered  through  many  a  shifting  crevice  in  bamboo 
leaves,  to  disperse  all  vexing  questions  with  its 
showered  light,  its  cool,  bright  bath  of  healing. 
Over  the  lashed  platform  of  his  new  house, 
quivered  herring-bone  shadows  from  a  nipah 
palm.  Girls,  robed  in  buttercup  yellow  and 


THE   DESSA  161 

fairy  pink,  trailed  a  slow  procession  under  the 
fruit-blossoms,  like  eastern  Hours  passing  in  a 
pageant.  The  dessa,  though  quiet,  had  been  long 
awake;  for  all  these  meek  brown  girls,  slender 
and  straight  under  head-burdens,  and  swaying 
with  the  gait  of  goddesses,  already  were  filing 
home  from  some  distant  bazaar.  They  vanished, 
murmuring.  Naked  children  scampered  in  the 
clean  little  street,  their  bellies  tight-ballooned 
with  fatness.  Nearer  to  hand,  in  the  shade  of  a 
|  rice-barn  shaped  like  a  cradle,  two  withered  old 
men  squatted  on  a  purple  carpet  of  fallen  jambu 
petals,  and  held  serene  discourse. 

"  A  real  chief,"  said  one  proudly.  "  See  how  he 
walks,  there !  A  true  prop  of  the  old  banyan,  this 
prince!" 

"True,"  assented  the  other,  squirting  from 
stained  lips  a  blood-red  stream  of  betel.  "  Great 
are  his  comeliness  and  valor.  See  how  all  the 
women  leave  their  batik  frames,  to  watch.  So 
they  sing  in  the  pantun :  — 

*  Hang  Casturi  passes  the  door,  — 
The  young  wife  runs  from  her  husband's  arms! ' " 

The  first  elder  thoughtfully  nodded. 

"Great  is  youth,"  he  replied,  with  smiling  re 
gret.  "  But  this  prince  —  he  cares  not  for  the 
women.  His  breed  is  the  fighting  breed.  That 
young  Dato  Hasan  is  a  mere  dandy,  who  spends 


162  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

more  hours  in  dressing  than  a  girl ;  sitting  on 
horseback,  he  will  straighten  his  turban  by  his 
shadow  on  the  ground.  I  have  seen  him.  But 
our  prince  here,  no:  he  is  a  fighter,  and  brave. 
Brave  as  Omar's  gamecock,  or  the  fighting  crick 
ets  from  Sangean.  The  son  of  brightness  and 
wonder.  See  him,  there!" 

The  object  of  their  praises  came  into  view.  It 
was  the  Sultan  Rama,  in  dull  blue  robe  and  scar 
let  sandals,  returning  from  the  bath.  He  stalked 
slow  and  haughty  as  a  young  Tamburlaine.  A 
girl  in  pale  yellow  minced  before  him,  carrying  a 
silver  soap-case;  another  in  pale  green  minced 
behind,  with  a  towel  —  self-conscious  and  de 
mure,  both  of  them,  as  though  bearing  publicly 
the  instruments  of  an  emperor's  baptism.  From 
every  door  among  the  gold-brown  huts  peeped  a 
woman's  face,  admiring.  Rama  had  glances  for 
no  one,  left  or  right,  but  moved  in  all  the  dignity 
of  boredom. 

"Good-morning.  What  pleases  you  so?"  He 
paused  suddenly  before  David's  veranda;  and 
brushing  the  two  girls  away  like  flies,  stood  look 
ing  in  at  the  door.  He  had  caught  David,  perched 
on  the  edge  of  his  couch,  grinning.  "What  is 
your  joke  ?" 

David  pulled  a  more  sober  face. 

"I  was  listening,"  he  replied  ingenuously,  "to 
those  old  men.  They  praised  your  valor." 


THE  DESSA  163 

Rama,  in  his  blue  robe,  gave  a~comical  start,  a 
jerk  of  discomfiture.  A  black  frown  clouded  his 
face,  then  cleared  in  a  smile,  part  austere,  part 
sheepish. 

"Last  night,  you  mean?  You  think  I  went 
futt  ?"  He  turned  away,  signaling  with  delicate 
fingers  a  truce  to  argument.  "Very  welL  Night 
is  one  world,  day  another.  My  courage  —  we  '11 
talk  of  that  after  breakfast." 

He  paced  majestically  from  sight,  round  the 
rice-barn  cradle.  Along  the  street,  the  faces  of  the 
women  disappeared  indoors,  or  bent  studiously 
over  loom  and  sarong  frame,  dyeing-pot  and 
shuttle. 

David,  meanwhile,  donned  the  white  clothes 
made  as  by  magic  in  the  night.  A  new  rubber 
helmet,  of  London  make,  lay  ready  for  his  morn 
ing  walk.  Breakfast  he  ate,  coram  populo,  in  the 
veranda  of  his  new  house,  —  a  sylvan  breakfast, 
brought  by  unknown,  silent  men,  who  served  him 
as  deftly,  with  as  much  reverence,  as  though  he 
had  owned  them  for  a  lifetime.  From  the  tree- 
tops,  while  he  banqueted,  a  bell-bird  scattered 
everywhere  a  tinkling  melody  that  seemed  the 
voice  of  mountain  sunshine,  the  singing  of  the 
leaves,  the  green  light  of  the  dessa  itself,  trans 
lated  into  music. 

A  sultan's  guest  in  a  paradise,  he  might  not 
enjoy  these  things.  He  waited,  smoking,  more 


164  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

gloomy  than  a  bankrupt.  He  had  failed  in  his 
mission;  he  lingered  here  alone,  as  far  from  its 
purpose  as  when,  on  that  morning  in  the  banca, 
he  had  first  opened  the  silver  locket;  he  sat  a 
prisoner  to  hospitality,  bound  by  the  whims  of 
this  arbitrary  friend,  this  petted  monarch,  who 
was  in  no  hurry.  Worst  of  all,  thought  David, 
even  while  he  fumed,  he  liked  the  man. 

Thus  dejected,  he  was  listening  without  com 
fort  to  the  song  of  the  bell-bird,  when  up  beside 
his  veranda  bobbed  a  neat  little  piebald  turban, 
and  a  keen  little  swarthy  face,  with  twinkling 
eyes  inquisitive  and  friendly,  like  a  mongoose 
peering  over  a  threshold. 

"Sidin!"  cried  the  young  man,  with  a  start  of 
surprise  that  was  almost  hope.  "Sidin!" 

It  was  no  other.  The  small  chamberlain  from 
the  mountain  top,  smiling,  competent,  very  much 
alive  and  awake,  bade  him  good-morning.  The 
man  still  wore  at  his  waist  the  kriss  of  Her  faith 
less  coachman.  He  carried  himself  like  one  who 
enjoys  importance. 

"  What 's  happened,  Sidin  ?  Are  you  here 
alone  ?" 

"Alone,  Tuan."  Sidin  fumbled  in  the  folds  of 
his  red  sash.  "I  bring  the  lady's  message,  paper- 
writing." 

He  pulled  out  a  folded  sheet  of  thin  Dutch 
paper.  David  read  his  own  name,  written  in  a 


THE  DESSA  165 

hand  which  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  was 
never  to  forget.  The  other  words,  inside,  were 
set  to  music  for  all  time,  accompanied,  twined 
beyond  extrication,  with  that  song  pouring  from 
the  high  trees. 

DEAR  MR.  BOWMAN,  —  You  will  understand 
why  I  was  so  selfish,  yesterday  morning,  as  to  send 
you  into  danger.  I  did  not  think.  Every  scrap 
from  Gerald  is  precious  to  me,  and  I  wanted 
that  one.  I  have  been  dreading,  and  hoping,  to 
hear  once  more  from  him.  —  Please  forgive  me. 

Mrs.  Hemmes  and  her  husband  appeared 
here  —  contrary  to  our  plans  —  and  have  per 
suaded  me  to  turn  back  for  a  week  or  two  at  their 
cinchona  plantation,  Batu  Blah.  It  is  beyond 
the  upper  fork  of  the  Arvana  road,  on  the  right- 
hand  branch.  They  both  join  me  in  hoping  that 
you  will  be  able  to  come  up  and  see  us.  We  arrive 
there  this  evening. 

Sincerely  yours, 

MARY  ARNOT. 

Your  boy  Sidin  is  invaluable.  He  brought  me 
here  to  the  station  quite  safely,  went  back  to  dis 
cover  your  whereabouts,  and  reports  that  you  are 
in  excellent  hands. 

Sidin  appeared  to  be  smiling,  but  inoffensively, 
downward  at  his  own  toes. 

"Where  is  she ?  What  did  she  tell  you ?" 


166  THE   TWISTED  FOOT 

The  messenger  looked  up  in  all  due  gravity. 

"I  do  not  know,  Tuan.  She  comes."  Pointing 
with  his  chin,  he  broadly  indicated  the  village 
gates,  the  village  walls  of  woven  gold,  the  serried 
bamboo  and  plantain  greenery,  and  the  lowlands 
hidden  beyond  them.  "She  will  come  this  even 
ing,  my  lord." 

More  questions  brought  forth  no  more  details. 
The  lady  would  be  among  the  hills  by  nightfall. 
Sidin  could  project  his  mind  no  further ;  he  had 
played  his  meagre  part,  spoken  his  few  lines ;  and 
yet  when,  clinking  a  handful  of  silver  florins,  he 
made  exit  by  the  dessa  gates  and  went  singing  up 
the  mountain,  he  left  behind  him  a  whole  scene 
transformed.  The  green  twilight  was  at  once 
brighter  and  cooler.  The  women  flitting  in  gay 
kabaias  from  door  to  door,  like  birds  of  party- 
colored  feather;  the  undertone  of  gossip  from 
shady  rooms  and  flowering  alleys ;  the  laughter  of 
children;  the  click-clack  of  looms;  the  grinding 
thump  of  a  rice-pestle ;  the  sour  pungency  from 
betel-nuts  sweating  in  a  hidden  storehouse,  — 
all  these  became  parts  of  something  different  and 
happier  than  before.  David  saw,  and  heard,  and 
smelled,  and  behold  it  was  good.  He  forgot  his 
worries  of  last  night.  Mary  was  coming  back. 
Whatever  had  unsweetened  the  world,  it  was  gone. 
The  very  cheroot  he  smoked  had  suddenly  got  a 
flavor  above  tobacco  grown  on  planetary  soil. 


THE  DESSA  167 

"Where  does  old  Rama  buy  these?"  He 
watched  the  smoke  in  lazy  delight.  "They're 
wonderful." 

Into  this  propitious  mood  broke  the  voice  of 
the  Sultan  himself. 

"What  do  you  say  to  a  swim  ?"  In  his  plain 
Arab  dress  of  yesterday,  Sri  Rama  stood  before 
him  unattended.  "Better  than  lounging  among 
women?" 

"Swim!"  David  upset  his  rattan  stool,  and 
vaulted  down  from  his  veranda  like  a  schoolboy 
invited  to  play  truant.  "Bully!  Where?" 

The  young  monarch  smiled,  in  rather  sad 
approval. 

"  How  full  of  energy  you  chaps  are ! "  he  mused ; 
then,  glancing  disconsolately  round  the  dessa,  — 
"Women,  these  women,  always  the  same  every 
where  !  It's  like  stuffing  sugared  almonds  all  day ! 
You're  better  company  than  that  she- tailor, 
Hasan.  Here,  Amat!  Follow  us!" 

Through  a  sliding  lattice  wicket,  the  back  gate 
of  the  village,  they  stepped  at  once  into  towering 
jungle,  an  abrupt  chute  of  landscape,  a  cataract 
of  sunlight  and  billowing  green.  Stag-horn  ferns, 
banks  of  white  paschal  lilies,  surged  waist-high 
about  them ;  and  from  many  a  branch,  in  many  a 
hue,  great  orchids  dangled  until  the  skyward  vista 
seemed  like  an  immense  hothouse  tilted  upon 
end. 


168  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

"To  the  Chinaman's,  Amat.    Guide  us." 

A  little  path,  h^lf-hidden,  ascended  in  loops 
and  smothered  whirls.  Up  these  the  hill-man 
went  skipping  like  a  goat.  David  and  the  Sultan 
followed  at  leisure.  From  terrace  to  terrace  in 
this  Babylonian  garden,  they  halted  to  sniff  the 
scented  morning,  or  drink  deep  of  the  clear,  mild 
air,  or,  chatting  lazily,  to  watch  the  metallic  blue- 
and-orange  streak  where  a  beo  darted  through  the 
sunlight,  or  the  fluttering  course  of  a  green  mag 
pie  with  coral  beak  and  legs.  The  mountain-side 
was  very  still. 

The  dessa,  far  below,  had  vanished  in  a  mound 
of  verdure,  when  all  at  once  the  Sultan  paused, 
more  quickly  than  before,  and  listened  more 
intently. 

"You  hear  that,  Bowman?" 

David  shook  his  head. 

"Nothing  but  Amat,  up  aloft  there." 

"No,"  rejoined  Rama  quietly.  "Alongside. 
Off  in  the  bush.  —  Stopped  now." 

Again  and  again,  as  they  climbed,  he  slanted 
his  black  fez  to  the  right,  sidewise,  cocking  an 
ear.  Once  David  thought  that  he,  too,  heard  a 
swishing  of  leaves  in  that  direction,  parallel  to 
their  course.  And  presently,  when  they  had 
overtaken  Amat  squatting  morosely  under  a 
laurel,  they  faced  each  other  with  a  quick  nod  of 
agreement. 


THE  DESSA  169 

"Something."  Rama's  curved  lips  pouted.  He 
listened  in  a  brown  study,  though  all  the  leaves 
again  were  still.  "  Honest  people  would  climb  by 
this  path,  —  not  break  their  necks.  That  beast  of 
a  Regent  may  have  sent  somebody.  If  it's  a  spy 
from  his  Kraton,  we'll  — " 

He  beckoned  to  Amat,  who  sprang  on  foot. 

"Go  see,  thou."  He  pointed  into  the  laurel. 

The  guide  was  gone  a  noticeable  time.  The 
soft  crashing  of  ferns  and  branches  rose,  accel 
erated,  then  seemed  to  split  in  twain.  Half  the 
sound  fled  off,  abated;  half  quietly  returned. 
Amat's  face,  as  he  slipped  through  the  laurels 
into  the  path,  wore  a  look  surlier  than  ever,  yet 
altered  and  puzzled. 

"It  ran,  lord,"  he  reported,  with  gruff  submis 
sion.  "  I  could  not  catch.  It  might  be  larger  than  a 
tiger's  head,  what  I  saw.  I  could  not  tell,  for  the 
bushes.  The  thing  was  red  —  red  as  tupai  tanah." 

"Lead  up,  then,"  commanded  Rama  curtly. 
"To  the  pool." 

They  started  on,  without  further  parley.  But 
after  a  few  steps,  the  Sultan  fell  back  beside 
David. 

"Do  you  understand  that  ?"  he  grumbled. 
"  Tupai  tanah.  It  was  following,  too.  Something 
red  as  a  ground-squirrel  ?  —  No  more  do  I." 

He  clambered  away  once  more,  nimble  and 
silent,  but  shaking  his  head  like  a  man  ill  pleased. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   GREEN   POOL 

A  MINGLED  music,  like  that  of  harps  and  little 
bells,  came  dropping  through  the  boughs.  Clear, 
sweet,  in  perfect  time,  the  tinkling  measures 
flowed  on  without  beginning  or  end,  doubling 
and  returning  upon  themselves  as  eddies  wander 
in  a  brook. 

The  three  men,  climbing  a  short  flight  of 
earthen  stairs,  gained  level  ground  among  rasa- 
mala  pillars  and  banyans  buttressed  with  huge 
roots.  The  grove  reared  from  a  wide  terrace, 
carpeted  with  grass  and  purple  violets.  Deep  in 
shade,  a  low  building  of  whitewashed  stone  ran 
out  bare  flanking  walls  to  inclose  part  of  the 
wood  in  a  hollow  square,  like  a  compound. 

By  the  vaulted  door,  an  old  Chinaman  sat  fan 
ning  his  stomach  with  a  palm-leaf,  smoking  a 
conical  cigarette,  and  listening  sagely  to  the 
widespread  chime  of  hidden  music. 

"Mandi,  baba,"  growled  Amat,  wasting  no 
ceremony. 

The  slant-eyed  proprietor  of  the  bath  rose, 
grinned,  and  waved  his  fan  to  usher  them  down  a 


THE   GREEN  POOL  171 

flagstone  passage,  slit  into  many  narrow  doors 
along  each  wall,  and  roofed  only  with  sunshine 
and  drooping  leaves. 

"Here  you  are,"  announced  the  Sultan,  point 
ing  to  one  gap  in  these  catacombs,  and  entering 
its  neighbor.  "Amat  will  watch  our  clothes. 
First  man  in!" 

David  came  out,  naked,  with  a  whoop.  The 
Chinaman  beckoned  him,  flourishing  a  towel, 
from  a  cross  corridor.  Through  this  he  ran,  to 
emerge,  delighted,  on  the  cement  platform  of  the 
swimming-pool. 

Walled  with  white  masonry,  green  hanging 
vines,  and  flame-colored  masses  of  hibiscus,  a 
deep  little  tarn  of  emerald  lay  still  under  arching 
trees.  Cool  shadows,  golden  wriggles  of  sunlight, 
swam  and  played  in  it,  making  mysterious  designs 
on  a  bottom  of  gray  cobblestones  worn  smooth  in 
some  mountain  torrent.  From  close  by,  among 
leaves,  the  same  unending  music  poured  quietly 
into  this  retreat,  and  filled  the  air  with  a  mellow 
concord  as  of  harp-strings  and  temple-bells. 

"First  man,  Rama!" 

David  took  his  header,  in  a  curve  like  a  leaping 
salmon.  Bathed  in  cool  green  light,  he  glided 
along  bottom ;  then  rose  to  float  deliciously  in  the 
flickering  sunshine;  then  romped  at  full  speed, 
face  under,  through  a  glorious  riot  of  spray. 

Banyan  ropes,   festooned   from   tree   to   tree 


172  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

across  the  pool,  served  as  rustic  swings  and  life 
lines.  On  one  of  these  he  hoisted  himself,  to  sit 
balancing,  and  churn  the  water  with  his  legs. 
Swimming  in  this  bower,  to  the  music  of  metallo- 
phones  and  bamboo  chimes,  was  a  different  sport 
from  swimming  in  the  Sulu  Sea,  where  he  had 
last  practiced  it,  alone  with  the  moon. 

"Pretty  stroke,  Bowman,  that  of  yours." 

Rama  poised  on  the  edge  of  the  pool,  a  live 
statue  of  Mercury  cast  in  new  bronze.  He 
laughed,  clove  air  and  water  in  a  single  arrowy 
flash,  and  rigid  as  a  blade  from  finger  to  toe,  shot 
through  the  green  translucency  without  a  stroke. 

"Worth  coming  for,  isn't  it?"  he  puffed, 
swarming  up  beside  David,  like  a  gymnast  on  a 
trapeze.  "So  glad  you  care  about  this  sort  of 
thing."  He  shook  the  water  from  his  eyes,  and 
laughed  again.  "You  can't  guess,  old  chap, 
what  it  means  to  have  good  company  —  the  kind 
that  will  enjoy  things  —  like  you." 

He  plashed  with  his  feet,  smiling  radiantly. 

"Why,"  David  ventured,  "won't  Dato 
Hasan?" 

"He!  swim!"  The  naked  Sultan,  in  making 
a  gesture  of  disdain,  fell  backward  off  the  rope. 

"Hasan's  an  ass!"  he  sputtered,  climbing  up 
again  and  perching.  "Of  course  he's  my  sword- 
bearer,  and  all  that,  but  —  Honestly,  Bowman, 
you  have  no  idea  what  a  dull  life  those  chaps  lead 


THE   GREEN  POOL  173 

me,  at  home.  Dull.  Nothing  ever  happens. 
Nothing!" 

The  banyan  cable  swayed  with  his  vehemence. 
From  the  surrounding  leaves,  the  tranquil  forest- 
music  chimed  its  interlude. 

"I  was  made  for  war,"  he  continued  sadly. 
"And  there  are  no  more  wars." 

He  pondered  awhile,  spreading  and  contract 
ing  his  toes  luxuriously  in  the  clear  water. 

"If  there  were  any"  —  He  glanced  sidelong  at 
his  companion  —  "  if  there  were,  Bowman,  you 
might  not  find  so  much  fault  with  —  with  my 
courage." 

"I  said  nothing,"  David  protested,  "I  meant 
nothing  of  that  sort." 

The  Sultan  shook  his  head. 

"I  know  what  you  think,"  he  retorted  sor 
rowfully.  "White  men  believe  nothing.  I  know 
many  beautiful  stories,  many  terrible  stories,  all 
true,  and  all  very  strange.  If  I  told  you  one,  — 
the  best  one,  —  you  would  laugh  at  me  inside 
yourself.  I  know."  He  looked  up  with  a  mournful 
smile.  "Yet  I  am  not  a  liar.  Neither  was  my 
father,  who  told  me ;  nor  his  father,  who  told  him. 
They  were  all  princes.  They  would  not  lie,  in 
private  matters.  They  were  all  princes,  and  what 
you  call  gentlemen.  Last  night,  by  the  great 
Sultan  Muda's  grave,  when  the  wet  shadow  slid 
by  in  the  dark,  you  had  no  fear,  because  you 


174  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

had  no  knowledge  or  belief.  Does  that  make  me 
a  coward?"  Rama's  eye  glowed  suddenly,  his 
voice  rang  out  with  a  kind  of  hopeless  indignation. 
"  Am  I  ?  Because  the  night  is  filled  with  things 
you  never  heard  of  ?  —  things  that  princes  have 
known  from  the  old  times,  but  any  broker  would 
laugh  at  in  Singapore,  where  nothing  is  true  ex 
cept  dollars  and  drink,  whiskey  and  the  rate  of 
exchange  ?  —  Their  beliefs !  Chiss  !  " 

He  hung  his  head,  and  peered  into  the  green 
depths. 

"I  do  not  laugh,"  said  David. 

Rama  nodded. 

"No.  And  you  showed  respect,  out  there  by 
the  grave."  The  Sultan's  manner  grew  more 
composed.  "Still,  you  think  I  was  afraid,  of 
something  quite —  Nevermind.  These  matters 
are  hard  to  explain." 

The  two  naked  truants,  swinging  side  by  side, 
kicked  up  a  thunder  of  foam,  then  watched  it 
subside  into  bubbles. 

"Much  too  hard,"  David  assented  thought 
fully.  "You  know,  Rama,  I  don't  mind  telling 
—  Well,  sometimes,  the  less  said  about  courage 
the  better." 

"Ah!"  his  companion  murmured,  with  a  quiet 
air  of  satisfaction.  "  So  you  will  own  up,  too.  I 
was  waiting.  Now,  this  ape-foot  hantu  thing  ? 
What  is  your  idea  of  that?" 


THE   GREEN  POOL  175 

David,  busily  collecting  the  strands  of  his  nar 
rative,  watched  the  last  bubble  float  and  dissolve. 

"It  begins  with  a  silver  locket,"  he  answered 
slowly.  "No,  first  I  fell  overboard."  Thus, 
fairly  started,  he  recounted  his  whole  adventure. 
The  forest  orchestra  played  its  low,  tinkling  ac 
companiment,  as  to  a  story  told  on  the  stage. 
"Now  you  know  as  well  — as  well  as  I,  almost." 

Almost;  David  was  hugging  to  himself  the  se 
cret  of  that  reservation,  when  Rama  gave  a  short, 
musical  laugh,  and  another  of  his  glances,  side 
long,  up  and  away,  quicker  than  the  visit  of  a 
humming-bird. 

"  You  saw  her  only  once  ?"  he  chuckled.  "  And 
even  before  you  had  seen  her  —  oho !" 

"Well?"  David's  tone  was  passably  cool. 
"Where's  the  joke?" 

The  Sultan's  features  became  a  study  in  cour 
teous  gravity. 

"Your  body  is  whiter  than  cotton,"  he  ob 
served,  in  sly  approval.  "Why  is  your  face  the 
color  of  that  hibiscus  on  the  wall  ?" 

David  swung  glowering,  unable  to  retort. 

"No;  I  can't  understand,"  the  Sultan  reflected, 
smiling  mischief.  "Here  you  have  undergone 
many  troubles,  and  long  journeys  —  as  faithful 
as  Hang  Tuah  to  his  rajah.  And  this  ape-foot 
thing  comes  after,  always,  in  the  dark.  You  had 
only  seen  the  woman's  picture ;  never  heard  her 


176  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

voice,  which  might  have  been  sharper  than  a 
kite's  whistle.  And  yet  you  have  said  to  yourself, 
secretly,  'All  this  I  will  do,  and  more;  for  the 
woman  is  mine ! ' 

"Not  at  all ! "  cried  David,  with  a  start  both  of 
anger  and  guilt.  "  Her  man  is  dead.  I  told  you, 
Rama." 

His  tormentor  laughed  quietly,  without  mirth. 

''Yes,  that  man  is  dead.  You're  alive."  Rama 
stared  wistfully  into  the  pool.  "It  is  thus  always, 
brother.  A  man  dies.  His  horse  will  wiiinny  for 
days,  and  paw  in  the  stall  through  night  after 
night,  and  refuse  grain,  listening  for  his  step. 
His  step,  that  no  longer  bends  the  grass.  But 
with  women !  Next  day  his  woman  will  sit  laugh 
ing,  and  eating  sweetmeats,  and  buying  new  silks 
of  some  box-wallah  from  the  land  of  Kling.  A 
good  friend  of  mine  died,  and  his  —  Ah !  I  have 
seen  that,  also ;  and  it  has  made  me  sad." 

"It 's  not  so,  Rama,  with  this  girl." 

"No?"  The  royal  misogynist  waved  his  legs, 
despondent  as  before.  "How  can  you  tell  ?" 

"One  has  only  to  see  her." 

"It  may  be,"  agreed  the  Sultan  gloomily. 
"There  must  be  another  kind,  or  else  the  old  tales 
and  poems  lie.  I  have  never  seen  such  a  woman." 
Suddenly  he  glanced  up.  "But  this  one,  Bow 
man:  suppose  she  could  forget  her  dead  man, 
and  remember  only  you?  How  then?" 


THE   GREEN  POOL  177 

"If  I  thought  she  was  that  kind,"  said  David 
hastily,  "I  shouldn't  be  here." 

Metallophones  and  bamboo  bells  played  their 
interlude  again,  while  the  young  Sultan,  his 
curved  brows  drawn  together,  considered  this 
puzzling  answer. 

"My  thought  flies  one  way,  yours  another." 
He  stretched  out  his  bare  arm  parallel  with 
David's.  "Look.  It's  the  different  color  of  our 
skins.  I  can't  understand  you."  Dropping  his 
arm,  he  dropped  the  problem  also.  "Never 
mind.  You  shall  have  your  dead  man's  packet, 
Bowman.  I  '11  give  it  to  you  when  we  dress. 
Come!  Another  dive!" 

He  hoisted  both  feet  out  of  water,  set  them 
precariously  on  the  banyan  cable,  stood  upright 
: wavering  with  arms  outspread  like  a  dancer  on  a 
islack  wire,  ran  a  few  steps,  then  clinging  wildly 
jwith  both  fingers  and  toes,  fell  underneath  the 
jrope  in  a  swing  that  shot  David  off  upon  the 
water  as  flat  and  sprawling  as  a  starfish. 

"Come  on!"  laughed  the  Sultan.  "A  dive 
from  the  trees!" 

He  shinned  up  the  swaying  cable,  with  David 
in  close  pursuit,  hand  over  hand.  Ten  feet  above 
the  pool,  a  great  bough  forked  and  spread  hori 
zontal  between  layers  of  sunny  leafage.  See 
sawing  on  this,  the  two  men  could  look  down 
through  chinks  upon  the  whole  inclosure  of  the 


178  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

bath :  the  red-tiled  roof  of  the  Chinaman's  quar 
ters;  the  cross  pattern  of  open  corridors,  like 
hedge-tops  in  a  maze;  the  sharp  edge  of  volcano 
spur  slicing  up  through  the  forest  on  the  one 
hand,  slicing  down  on  the  other;  and  over  the 
opposite  wall  of  the  swimming-pool,  a  bamboo 
platform  built  among  trees  outside,  where 
squatted  an  orchestra  of  little  boys,  —  their 
music  now  stopped,  and  all  of  them,  with  friendly 
nods  and  grins,  hailing  the  pair  of  naked  gentle 
men  perched  on  the  bough. 

"Here  goes!"  cried  the  Sultan  gayly. 

Joining  his  palms  in  the  devotional  attitude 
of  diving,  he  was  about  to  bend  forward.  The 
movement  switched  a  frond  of  leaves  across  his 
face.  Rama  brushed  them  away,  but  almost  in 
the  same  contortion  snatched  at  them  again,  tot 
tered,  caught  hold,  and  saved  himself  from  fall 
ing. 

"See,  Bowman!  Look!"  He  jerked  his  chin 
rapidly,  like  a  snake  striking,  toward  the  roof 
less  corridors  of  the  dressing  compartments.  "A 
man  —  running  —  on  the  wall !  Look !  He 
climbed  over,  from  outside!" 

The  long,  pliant  bough  sprang  with  his  ar 
rested  motion,  and  swayed  under  them ;  plunging 
foliage  crossed  and  recrossed  before  their  eyes. 
As  through  a  thicket  in  a  gale,  David  caught  only 
a  glimpse  or  two,  in  flying  patches  of  vision ;  but 


THE   GREEN  POOL  179 

he  seemed  to  see  or  guess  the  passage  of  some 
body,  something,  that  bounded  along  the  edge  of 
the  corridors,  and  dropped  from  sight  among 
them. 

"Rama!       Clothes,    our    clothes!      Is     the 
packet  —  ?" 

The  Sultan  nodded,  as  he  gathered  himself 
again  for  the  downward  swoop. 

"Yes.    Inside  there.    Quickly,  Bowman!" 

David  shot  from  the  bough  in  a  breakneck 
dive.  Even  as  he  fell,  he  saw  Rama  hurtling 
;  through  the  air  beside  him.  They  bobbed  up  in 
the  same  boiling  circle  of  foam,  kicked  each  other 
in  their  battle  for  headway,  and  raced  through 
the  pool  like  a  frantic  pair  of  water-spaniels. 

Above  the  hiss  and  welter  of  swimming,  they 
|  heard  a  brief  outcry,  —  the  voice  of  Amat,  ring 
ing  through  the  pent  space  of  the  corridors. 

White  hand  and  brown  touched  the  goal  to 
gether.  Body  to  body,  the  swimmers  heaved  over 
the   edge   of   the   main   platform,    slipped   and 
i  rolled  on  the  warm  cement,  sprang  afoot,  and  ran 
stumbling  into  the  passage-way. 

"Ah!"   cried   the   Sultan    sharply,   with   the 
gesture  of  a  man  in  pain. 

His  exclamation  resounded  through  that  con 
finement  like  a  note  of  singing,  bandied  from  wall 
to  blazing  wall.  Both  men  stood  dripping,  before 
the  little  cells  which  held  their  clothing.  David's 


180  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

door,  Rama's  door,  alike  remained  safely  closed. 
But  in  front  of  them,  on  the  flagstones,  scowling 
up  into  the  hot  sunlight  which  he  would  never 
behold  again,  lay  the  surly,  faithful  guardian, 
Amat.  A  thread  of  crimson  showed  below  his 
right  nostril. 

"It  followed  us,"  said  his  master,  in  a  dull, 
dogmatic  voice.  "  Up  the  hill.  It  did  follow  us, 
you  see." 

The  body  at  their  feet  relaxed,  with  a  final 
movement  which  bore  sinister  resemblance  to 
life. 

"On  the  head,"  was  David's  only  answer. 
He  pointed  to  a  loose  flag  that  lay  across  the  cor 
ridor,  like  a  plate  spun  in  a  children's  game.  "It 
was  done  with  that." 

He  looked  at  the  Sultan,  the  Sultan  at  him, 
stolidly,  without  moving.  Into  the  silence  and 
glaring  heat  of  the  passage-way,  stole  the  happy 
tinkle  of  "  Onang-Onang,"  played  faintly  among 
the  trees.  Amat  lay  supine,  his  sulky  face  turned 
awry,  as  if  the  tune  disturbed  him  in  his  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    HIGHWAY 

THE  Sultan  dashed  one  hand  across  his  eyes, 
and  seemed  to  brush  his  wits  from  stupor  into 
action.  Without  a  word,  he  ran  quickly  to  the 
nearest  wall ;  without  a  word,  but  in  full  com 
prehension,  David  gave  him  knee  and  hand. 
Up  went  the  prince  like  a  greyhound ;  then  stand 
ing  on  the  mossy  tiles  that  crowned  the  wall,  he 
scanned  the  forest,  up  hill  and  down,  long  and 
eagerly. 

"Not  a  sign,  Bowman."  With  clenched  fists, 
and  forearms  lightly  channeled  by  tense  mus 
cles,  Rama  made  a  queer  spasmodic  gesture, 
rather  of  postponement  and  resolve  than  of  de 
feat.  "Very  well."  He  turned  and  jumped  down 
inside  the  corridor.  "Let  us  dress,  then." 

He  spoke  no  further,  but  strode  back  into  his 
cell  like  a  man  keyed  high  to  some  purpose.  The 
matter  was  far  from  ended ;  though  not  till  after 
they  had  thrown  on  their  clothes,  roused  the 
Chinaman  from  his  noonday  sleep  in  the  vaulted 
entry,  and  with  his  terrified  assistance  had 
brought  their  burden  out  of  doors,  —  not  till 


182  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

then,  and  then  briefly,  did  the  Sultan  unfold  his 
mind. 

"See,  my  friend — "  He  looked  down,  be 
tween  pity  and  wrath,  at  the  figure  stowed  so  help 
lessly  on  a  wide  counterpane  of  violets,  shaded 
by  rattans.  "  This  coolie  was  my  servant.  Mine, 
and  faithful.  Whoever  it  was  that  did  this  — " 

Rama  stopped,  but  his  eyes  burned  like  brown 
coals.  He  fumbled  at  the  collar  of  his  tunic, 
undid  a  button,  and  pulled  out,  in  a  little  pour 
ing  loop  of  bright  links,  the  slack  of  a  gold 
chain.  It  dangled  on  his  breast ;  while  rummaging 
again  he  felt  for  something  under  his  waist- 
knot. 

"This,"  he  pointed  a  trembling  figure  at 
Amat's  body,  "comes  from  this."  It  was  the 
small  oblong  packet,  twine  and  seals  intact, 
which  he  now  held  in  his  other  hand.  "I  pro 
mised  you,  Bowman,  to  give  it  back.  But  light 
promises  break  before  heavy  ones."  Rama 
tossed  his  head,  and  swept  the  jungle  with  his 
eyes,  challenging.  In  pose,  in  feature,  and  in 
words,  he  underwent  a  singular  transformation; 
as  though  by  stepping  across  an  unseen  line  he 
had  left  the  present,  receded  a  hundred  years, 
and  taken  on  the  look  and  habit  of  a  warlike  past. 
"And  now  I  promise  that  this  thing  shall  hang 
here  about  my  neck,  till  I  have  found  those  who 
killed  my  servant." 


THE   HIGHWAY  183 

Again  his  slim  brown  fingers  worked  busily. 
Snapping  a  hidden  spring  in  the  gold  links,  he 
parted  them  asunder,  wound  the  chain  cunningly 
in  and  out,  round  and  round,  under  the  Japan 
ese  fibre,  until  with  another  snap  of  the  clasp 
the"  packet  fell  knotted  securely  on  his  breast. 

"Come  and  take  it!"  he  cried,  strutting  forth, 
in  game-cock  bravado,  to  where  the  sun  blazed 
over  a  little  clearing.  He  struck  the  suspended 
token  with  his  palm,  calling  aloud.  "Night  or 
day,  it  is  here  for  you!  Come  and  take  it!" 

The  unmoving  landslide  of  the  woods,  fern, 
frond,  and  orchid,  gave  back  only  heat  and 
silence.  So,  thought  David,  he  himself  once 
shouted  over  against  the  concealing  trees,  and 
got  no  answer.  Even  the  music  was  still.  The 
Chinaman  gave  a  nervous  cackle,  not  under 
standing  this  parade. 

"Bearers  will  come  up  for  him,"  said  Rama, 
returning  quietly,  and  nodding  toward  the  sleeper 
in  his  bed  of  violets.  "You,  Bowman,  will  go 
down  with  me  ?  We  have  only  begun." 

They  scrambled  down  the  path,  through  leaves 
and  flowers,  toward  the  dessa,  listening  warily 
for  noises  in  the  bush.  None  came,  save  when 
now  and  then  a  bird  darted  off,  with  a  quick  flirt 
of  sound  from  leaf  and  feather,  like  cards  shuf 
fled  in  a  pack. 

As  he  slid  open  the  rear  gate  of  the  village, 


184  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

Rama  paused,  and  smiled.  He  tapped  the  packet 
in  its  golden  sling. 

"My  courage,"  said  he,  "will  not  be  wanting." 

Close-wrapped  in  silence  again,  he  led  the 
way  past  David's  hut,  past  the  rice-crib,  round 
several  turns  and  windings  in  green  bamboo 
shade.  Apart,  and  overhung  more  deeply  than 
the  other  houses,  snuggled  the  Sultan's  brown 
attap  quarters,  marked  by  no  sign  of  royalty 
except  that  a  guardsman,  dozing  under  the  hedge, 
spat  his  betel  into  a  little  hand-jar  of  gold,  mas 
sive  and  beautifully  carven. 

The  front  room  of  this  kraton,  this  palace  in 
disguise,  was  crowded,  Malay  fashion,  with  va 
rious  untidy  heaps  —  the  gilt  umbrellas,  a  roll 
of  prayer- rugs,  pony- saddles,  malacca  riding- 
crops  with  jeweled  knobs  —  dropped  here  and 
there  as  if  a  puppy  had  fetched  them  from  out 
doors.  But  the  inner  chamber,  to  which  Rama 
straightway  brought  his  guest,  proved  no  less 
orderly  than  splendid,  —  a  cool,  dark  little  re 
treat,  hung  in  peaceful  colors,  with  gold  orna 
ments  glimmering  beside  luxurious  divans. 

"You  are  welcome  here,"  said  Rama  simply; 
and  delaying  for  no  more  elaborate  courtesy, 
crossed  to  the  farther  wall,  on  which  bristled  an 
armory  of  bright  weapons.  Krisses  in  every  pat 
tern  hung  there, — krisses  in  scabbards  of  gold, 
of  red  lacquer  and  brass,  of  tenderly  veined 


THE  HIGHWAY  185 

wood,  —  sepang,  cherita,  paso-pati,  no  shape  or 
variant  wanting. 

The  Sultan  turned  from  studying  them. 

"While  I  keep  this  — "  he  raised  and  let  fall 
the  packet  on  his  breast,  —  "what  shall  you 
do?" 

"No  choice,"  David  answered.  "I  stand  by, 
of  course." 

His  host,  nodding,  handled  the  weapons  rap 
idly  but  carefully. 

"Wear  this,  to  please  me.'*  He  pulled  from 
the  sheath,  and  proffered,  a  long  bone-handled 
kriss  of  the  naga-sasra  design,  bronze-green,  and 
crinkled  as  gently  as  a  tongue  of  flame.  "Try 
if  it  is  lucky.  Span  it  so,  from  ganja  to  puchuk." 

David,  obeying,  set  his  palm  on  the  flat  of  the 
blade,  and  measured  it  by  handbreadths. 

' '  Sri,  Lungu,  Dunia,' "  murmured  the  Sultan, 
keeping  tally  like  a  girl  with  daisy  petals;  "'Kara, 
Pati,  Sri.9  —  Good!  Your  sword  will  bring  you 
fortune.  Now  for  mine  — " 

He  took  down  a  second  kriss,  equally  plain. 
Its  wooden  haft,  brown  as  mahogany,  shone 
polished  with  ancient  use.  He  gripped  it,  drew, 
and  felt  the  balance  proudly. 

"This,"  he  explained,  dwelling  with  affection 
on  the  words,  "this  is  one  of  the  twelve  holy 
krisses  forged  by  a  priest  in  Mataram  for  the 
Sultan  of  Lombock." 


186  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

Rama  laid  his  own  little  hand  on  the  blade, 
and  measured  carefully  its  cruel  grace ;  then  gave 
a  quick  start,  and  looked  up  in  dismay. 

"Death,"  he  whispered. 

Another  measurement,  by  the  same  formula, 
left  him  staring. 

"It  is  death,  Bowman.  Pati,  says  the  steel. 
It  comes  out  death,  and  a  coffin." 

By  his  first  impulse,  Rama  flung  down  the 
kriss  upon  a  divan ;  by  his  second,  he  recovered 
it  and  stood  as  though  gazing  into  the  future. 

"You  will  smile  again  at  my  courage,"  he 
declared.  "So  let  it  stay.  At  least  we  can  clean 
the  rust  off." 

On  the  table  stood  a  bowl  heaped  with  fruit. 
The  Sultan  took  a  pineapple,  stabbed  it  through 
and  through,  then  with  a  red  silk  scarf  wiped 
the  juice  from  the  blade. 

"Let  it  be  so.  Death."  Sheathing  the  unlucky 
weapon,  he  poked  it  under  his  sash,  in  front. 
"  Now  tiffin."  He  clapped  his  hands  for  a  servant. 
"And  after  tiffin,  we  go  to  show  ourselves,  where 
men  may  see  what  hangs  about  my  neck." 

While  they  ate,  the  fitful  rain  of  the  tropics 
darkened  all  the  place,  filling  the  air  like  a  down 
pour  of  black  sand,  and  splashing  white  among 
the  leaves.  The  sun  blazed  again,  as  though 
switched  on  all  at  once.  And  when  David  and 
the  Sultan  passed  through  the  dessa  gate,  to 


THE  HIGHWAY  187 

climb  in  a  broad  footpath,  they  found  their 
mountain  world  refreshed  and  brightened,  steam 
ing,  yet  cool  and  filled  with  reviving  odors. 

"Here,"  said  Rama,  as  he  stepped  from  the 
shady  tunnel  of  the  path,  out  into  broad  sun 
shine,  "here  on  this  road  every  man  goes  past, 
sooner  or  later.  We  have  only  to  wait." 

The  highway  curved  downward  before  them, 
into  a  noble  prospect.  Rama  chose  a  green  bank 
canopied  with  rattans,  and  cast  himself  down 
full  length.  David,  sitting  alongside,  laughed 
inwardly  at  their  situation:  they  were  to  wait 
(it  now  appeared)  till  chance  relieved  them;  to 
wait  under  arms,  like  an  absurd  pair  of  Robin 
Hoods  or  Quixotes  defying  all  travelers.  David 
could  perform  his  own  part  with  ease  enough, 
and  content ;  for  it  was  by  this  highway,  he  per 
ceived,  and  by  no  other,  that  Mary  Arnot  must 
pass  to  the  cinchona  groves  at  Batu  Blah,  up  the 
mountain. 

Meanwhile,  he  thought,  the  Sultan's  public 
offer  of  his  person  would  bring  little  advantage, 
except  the  view.  Deeply  before  them,  where  the 
road  flowed  over  the  brink,  an  immense  green 
valley  of  palms  spread  into  bright,  clear  dis 
tance.  A  little  river  dashed  through  the  bottom 
of  this  valley,  red  as  cocoa,  foaming  over  rocks 
and  rapids.  Like  toy  midgets  made  from  copper, 
squads  of  naked  boys  and  girls,  far  off  and  far 


188  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

below,  romped  in  the  torrent,  swam  and  dove,  or, 
in  the  washing-pools,  flogged  the  boulders  with 
colored  specks  of  cloth.  The  afternoon  was  like 
spring,  fresh  and  warm;  a  pleasant  haze  every 
where  teased  the  eye  to  linger  in  space;  and 
round  the  encircling  volcanoes  —  engraved  to 
their  peaks  in  fine  lines  of  tillage,  or  tossing  and 
sweeping,  farther  off,  as  sharp  billows  of  misty 
blue  —  nothing  moved  but  a  cloud- shadow  trail 
ing  from  slope  to  slope  its  thunderous  indigo 
blot,  or  boys'  kites  darting  and  tumbling  like 
white  pigeons,  or  a  dazzling  ostrich  plume  of 
crater- smoke,  that  puffed  up,  stretched  into  a 
horizontal  wisp,  grew  cinder-black  along  its 
lower  edge,  and  slowly  dissolved.  Nearer  to 
hand,  the  sides  of  the  valley  climbed  up  gradatim 
from  the  muddy  river,  terrace  on  rice-field  ter 
race,  each  turf-topped  cloison  of  bank  holding 
the  blue  sky  and  gleaming  clouds  reflected,  and 
spouting  to  its  lower  neighbor  a  bright  runnel,  so 
that  a  multitudinous  tinkle  of  water  filled  the 
landscape  unceasingly. 

"Our  man  is  not  there,"  grumbled  the  Sultan, 
as  from  time  to  time  footsteps  pattered  in  the 
highway. 

No  one  passed  but  hill-men  on  quiet  errands. 
Now  and  then,  a  girl  in  pale  Jcabaia  glided  meekly 
up  or  down  the  road,  swaying  like  a  flower  on 
the  stalk.  Men,  skirted  in  decent  colors,  halted, 


THE   HIGHWAY  189 

crouched,  and  lowering  their  rabbit-ear  turbans, 
murmured,  "Peace  be  with  you,  lords."  All  who 
passed  carried  some  burden,  —  the  men  shoul 
dering  twin  picul-baskets  of  sweet-scented  green 
fodder;  grave  little  boys  trotting  behind,  each 
with  two  handfuls  of  rice-straw  slung  on  a  stick, 
to  ape  their  elders.  Sometimes  a  farmer  tugged 
after  him  a  sheep,  a  led  pony  between  panniers,  a 
black  and  balky  kid  fighting,  with  pointed  hoofs, 
every  inch  of  the  road  to  slaughter. 

"Not  our  man,"  repeated  the  Sultan,  watching 
each  figure  closely.  "Not  our  man." 

None  of  these  passers-by,  indeed,  gave  more 
than  a  deferential  stare,  along  with  greeting.  To 
their  eyes,  plainly,  Rama  was  but  a  young  Arab 
Tuan  resting  under  the  trees,  who  might  have 
hung  round  his  neck  an  amulet  against  fever  and 
belly-grief. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  said  David  modestly,  "  that 
we  are  wasting  time  ?" 

The  phrase  held  no  meaning  for  Malayan  ears. 

"I  have  said  it,"  retorted  Rama,  his  sullen  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  road.  "  I  show  myself  to  all  men, 
and  wait." 

The  afternoon  wore  by,  to  the  tinkle  of  water 
among  terraces.  The  sunshine  deserted  the  river, 
glowed  in  the  topmost  bundles  of  green  palm, 
left  them  extinct,  and  slanting  higher  over  the 
valley,  began  to  climb  the  opposing  hills.  In  the 


190  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

road,  travelers  of  a  different  sort  went  past,  at 
intervals :  some  tired  ploughman,  shouldering  his 
frail,  crooked  plough,  and  leading  his  buffalo,  a 
clay-blue  monster  tied  through  the  nostrils  with  a 
yellow  withe ;  or  filing  wearily  up  the  slope,  mus 
cular  matrons,  their  feet  and  hands  mud-painted 
from  the  transplanting  of  young  paddy. 

All  these  passed  in  review ;  evening  crept  up 
ward  from  the  valley;  and  David  might  hope 
that  now  the  Sultan  had  run  out  the  full  tether  of 
his  patience. 

"  Dateng  lihat!  Dateng  lihat  /"  crooned  a 
voice  near  by,  ascending.  "  Ini  malem !  Ini 
malem  /"  The  words  rose  gently  and  musically, 
like  an  invocation.  "  Come  see !  Come  see !  This 
evening!" 

Over  the  brink  of  the  highway  climbed  three 
young  men  dressed  as  for  holiday,  slim  and 
supple,  close  interlocked  in  friendship,  with  arms 
twined  about  shoulders.  The  .youth  in  the  middle 
could  read;  for  it  was  he  who  chanted  slowly, 
while  his  companions  bent  wondering  eyes  upon 
a  green-paper  scroll  which  he  bore  and  studied. 

"Dateng  lihat  !  —  De  Paris  Cinematograph!'9 
sang  the  youthful  scholar.  "Gambar  idup  jang 
paling  besar,  jang  paling  baru  di  Azia  Timur  ! 
Pake  Lampu  Electrik  /" 

"But  that  cannot  be!"  scoffed  one  of  his  un 
lettered  mates.  "Pictures  that  live?  No,  no!  I 


THE   HIGHWAY  191 

have  seen  the  Horse- Comedy  in  a  tent,  with 
tigers,  elephants,  and  painted  men  tumbling  to 
brass  music.  And  as  for  lamps,  Aladdin  could 
summon  djinns!  That  I  know.  But  pictures 
cannot  live !  This  paper  lies,  for  money !" 

The  trio  halted  in  the  road,  to  argue. 

"May  I  have  a  goitre,  but  they  do  live!" 
bawled  the  reader  at  last.  He  shook  the  green 
paper  fiercely,  and  plucked  the  loose  skin  of  his 
throat,  in  asseveration.  "  May  I  have  a  goitre,  if 
this  is  not  true!  It  is  not  a  lie,  neither  magic. 
They  come  and  go  like  wayang  acting  plays  on  a 
screen!" 

His  opponent  caught  sight  of  David  and  the 
Sultan  watching  them  from  under  the  rattans. 

"The  gentlemen!  Leave  it  to  our  lords  the 
gentlemen!  They  know  all  things." 

The  three  mountaineers  crossed  the  road  and 
louted  low. 

"Is  it  not  true,  my  lords,"  implored  the  reader, 
"that  by  virtue  of  your  wisdom  living  men  and 
women  appear  from  the  bowels  of  a  lamp,  and 
perform  most  wonderful  and  silly  deeds  ?  Is 
there  not  a  Comedy  of  the  Electric  Lamp  ?" 

The  Sultan  returned  an  equivocal  nod,  like  a 
wayside  cadi  who  would  not  bestow  judgment 
rashly. 

"Give  me  the  printed  paper,"  he  answered. 
"Let  me  read  the  words." 


192  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

It  was  the  programme  for  a  show  of  moving 
pictures,  of  which  the  glory  was  set  forth  in  elo 
quent  Malay.  Wonder  followed  wonder,  through 
ten  divisions  of  fine  print:  from  Number  One, 
Kabakaran,  the  House  on  Fire,  with  the  Smiting 
of  the  Tong-Tong,  and  the  Arrival  of  the  Pump 
Profession,  to  Number  Ten,  Dansa  Nama  de 
Cake  Walk.  The  comedy  would  be  performed 
that  evening  in  a  spacious  tent,  at  the  Fork  of  the 
Roads  near  Batu  Blah. 

"All  this  is  possible,"  pronounced  the  Sultan 
gravely.  "I  have  seen  such  doings." 

The  young  mountaineers  bowed  a  graceful 
sembah,  gave  thanks  in  quiet  chorus,  and  with 
drew.  As  they  climbed,  the  words  of  the  scholar 
floated  down,  exulting  over  ignorance. 

"We  shall  see  all,"  he  declared,  in  triumph; 
"all,  as  the  paper  promises.  And  brass  music  in  a 
great  tent,  like  the  tent  of  your  Horse-Comedy ; 
and  all  the  people  from  nine  villages ;  and  many 
booths  with  lanterns  under  the  trees,  and  eatings 
going  forward,  and  drinkings!" 

Their  forms  and  voices  vanished  among  the 
steep  trees. 

"It  is  a  sign."  From  watching  thoughtfully 
the  sunset  hills,  Rama  rose  to  his  feet.  "  We  shall 
go  up  to  this  tent.  All  the  people  from  round 
about  shall  see  us  there." 

He  started  forward.  The  spectacle  of  the  sun, 


THE   HIGHWAY  193 

a  fiery  disk  wheeling  daintily  down  the  hot  rim  of 
a  western  spur,  checked  him  as  with  a  sudden 
reminder. 

"  Wait  a  bit,  Bowman.  I  forgot  my  prayers  last 
night.  See.  It's  just  as  the  Koran  says:  'The 
long  shadows  fall  prostrate,  praising  God,  morn 
ing  and  evening. ' !>  He  faced  the  departing  light, 
and  instantly,  alone  with  his  faith,  began  his 
solemn  reverences,  —  now  standing  erect,  now 
bending  with  hands  on  knees,  now  crouching  to 
lay  his  forehead  on  the  ground.  He  whispered 
fervently.  "Allah,  the  great,  the  merciful  and 
loving-kind,  King  of  the  Judgment  Day.  ..." 

The  sun  went  down.  Night  filled  the  valley  and 
ran  brimming  over  the  high  ravines.  In  the  rice- 
field  terraces,  thousands  of  fireflies  hovered  like 
ineffectual  sparks,  and  on  the  nearest  pools, 
winked  among  paddy-blades,  and  were  tenderly 
reflected  in  the  water. 

At  last  the  Sultan  rose,  a  shadowy  figure  in  the 
gloom. 

"It  is  time  to  follow,"  he  said. 

Up  a  winding  ribbon  of  gray,  less  and  less 
vague  under  increasing  starlight,  the  two  men 
marched  toward  the  upper  crossways,  and  the 
Comedy  of  the  Electric  Lamp. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LAMP-COMEDY 

THE  road  ascended  by  cranks,  and  double  turns, 
and  sweeping  arcs.  It  plunged  through  central 
darkness  in  the  angle  of  a  wooded  ravine ;  or  lift 
ing  a  sharp  curved  sabre  of  lava-crest,  high  over 
black  treetops,  it  let  the  travelers  cross  the  bare 
heavens  on  a  bridge,  with  nothing  below  either 
hand  but  a  field  of  stars,  —  as  though  the  world 
were  set  up  edgewise. 

"Night  is  our  friend,"  declared  the  Sultan, 
waving  an  arm  toward  the  starry  gulf.  "  We  shall 
reach  the  end  of  our  desires,  Bowman,  before 
morning.  I  feel  that.  It  has  come  strong  inside 
me.  The  kriss  of  Mataram  has  death  on  its 
point.  We  shall  know  that  riddle,  also.  The 
night  is  good." 

He  marched  on,  his  spirits  evidently  rising 
from  level  to  level,  with  the  altitude.  David, 
meanwhile,  made  a  skeptical  follower:  the  con 
stellations  round  about,  the  scented  darkness 
below,  held  no  presages  for  him;  his  own  kriss, 
tucked  under  his  armpit,  was  an  incumbrance 
which,  but  for  politeness,  he  would  gladly  have 


LAMP-COMEDY  195 

tossed  away ;  and  trudging  behind  his  companion, 
he  smiled  to  see  how  powerfully  the  prospect  of  a 
little  fun  could  operate.  The  Sultan  still  might 
talk  revenge  as  loftily  as  he  chose,  and  climb  with 
Tarquin's  ravishing  strides ;  but  what  now  drew 
him  so  cheerfully  up  the  mountain  was  —  for  a 
good  guess  —  nothing  more  than  the  Comedy  of 
the  Lamp. 

"Punch  and  Judy,"  thought  David.  "A  boy 
on  circus  day!" 

He  himself  would  not  grumble;  of  the  cross- 
ways  up  there,  one  was  the  right  road,  the  road 
to  Batu  Blah. 

And  now,  wherever  the  black  mountain  but 
tresses  heaved  against  the  stars,  came  little  hu 
man  lights  which  traveled  up  or  down,  blinking 
among  trees  or  bobbing  in  furrowed  fields,  but 
all  converging  toward  one  region  of  the  night. 
Voices  called.  Neighbors  chatted  with  neigh 
bors,  in  separate  rills  of  talk  that  flowed  together, 
single  files  of  gossip  that  joined  and  advanced, 
like  the  moving  lamps,  in  one  direction.  From 
hidden  paths  alongside,  small  men  and  women 
rose  out  of  a  bush  or  slid  down  a  bank  into  the 
highway ;  paused,  group  by  group,  to  light  their 
torch  of  bamboo  slivers;  then  climbed  onward 
in  a  growing  procession. 

Under  this  escort  David  and  Rama  came  to 
the  Fork  of  the  Roads. 


196  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

It  was  here  the  torches  had  gathered,  and  still 
came  trooping.  Fringed  with  pendent  boughs, 
a  cavernous  white  tent  glimmered  softly,  like  a 
shapeless  balloon  with  fire  in  its  belly.  Round 
it,  a  crowded  camp  was  already  springing  up,  — 
lighted  booths  for  the  hungry,  surrounded  by 
pleasant  fumes  of  rice  and  sawah  fish  a-cooking ; 
lighted  counters  for  the  thirsty,  with  candle- 
flame  refracted  through  red  and  yellow  bottles 
of  sherbet;  an  instantaneous  bazaar  of  colored 
sarongs,  hanging  on  lines  from  tree  to  tree,  like 
rich  arras  in  a  wood ;  and  humbler  shops  on  tres- 
tled  boards,  where  home-made  cigarettes  lay 
next  to  sugared  tamarinds,  and  Swedish  matches 
among  plough-points  fresh  from  the  forge,  like 
devils'  hoofs  all  in  a  row.  The  delta  between  the 
roads  had  become  a  colony,  busy  as  Dido's  bee 
hive,  but  quieter,  and  happier. 

"Ah!  How  good  it  smells!"  sighed  Rama, 
sniffing  the  aroma  from  sago- wrapped  tobacco, 
and  spiced  cookery,  and  areca  juice,  and  trodden 
grass.  "Ah,  how  good!  And  how  Hasan,  that 
she-ass  belonging  to  Satan,  would  pinch  his  nose 
at  it!"  He  slipped  his  arm  through  David's, 
and  loitered  in  the  loitering  crowd.  "Thank 
your  prophet,  Bowman,  we  gave  Hasan  the  slip, 
and  all  his  kind!" 

He  wriggled  forward,  murmuring  courtesies 
to  clear  the  way,  and  gained  places  for  both  of 


LAMP-COMEDY  197 

them  at  a  clean  little  booth.  Between  a  cinchona 
coolie  and  the  gray-beard  damang  of  three  vil 
lages,  they  made  a  hearty  supper  on  curried 
fish,  rice,  and  grated  cocoanut.  Their  plates 
were  only  plantain  leaves;  but  Rama  ate  with 
all  the  gusto  of  Haroun  Al  Raschid  on  a  frolic, 
and  David,  for  appetite,  was  no  bad  vizier. 

They  drank  a  bottle  of  red  sherbet,  to  top  off 
their  wantonness.  The  Sultan  brought  forth 
cheroots  in  a  lordly  case.  And  while  they  stood 
exchanging  lights,  the  brass  music  suddenly 
crashed  and  squealed  from  the  tent. 

"It's  on!  It's  on!"  Rama  tossed  his  match 
away.  "  Let's  not  miss  any.  Do  you  know,  Bow 
man,  I've  not  had  such  a  lark  since  Chop-Chop 
won  at  Happy  Valley!" 

They  followed  the  flocking  mountaineers, 
wrangled  with  a  sweaty  half-caste  for  their  tickets, 
and  were  carried  on  a  gay  stream  of  expectancy 
under  the  canvas  flaps. 

"Near  the  door!"  called  David,  plucking  his 
comrade's  sleeve.  "Sit  near  the  door!" 

The  Sultan  laughed  and  nodded. 

"Right!"  he  cried.  The  loud  horns,  blaring 
out  a  music-hall  overture,  drowned  more  than 
half  his  words.  "Here  you  are  ...  I  under 
stand  .  .  .  keep  an  eye  for  your  young  lady 
...  on  the  road." 

They  captured  stools  near  the  entrance,  and 


198  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

sat  down.  Before  them  hung  a  broad  white  sheet, 
over  a  platform.  The  motley  audience  poured 
throughout  the  tent,  discussing,  beckoning,  sub 
siding  into  banks  of  softly  blended  color.  The 
third-class  rows,  in  front,  bristled  with  rabbit- 
ear  turbans;  but  elsewhere  appeared  the  black 
felt  hats  and  crimson-braided  queues  of  Chinese 
toko-men ;  the  shaven  polls  and  broad,  important 
backs  of  Dutch  planters,  all  in  white ;  and  here 
and  there,  a  restless  party  of  half-caste  girls, 
with  the  same  sweetmeat-boxes,  the  same  gig 
gling  whispers,  the  same  loose- working  shoulder- 
blades  as  those  which  fill  an  afternoon  theatre 
in  the  Western  hemisphere. 

"Before  the  lamps  .  .  .  put  out,"  came  the 
Sultan's  voice,  "better  show  myself  .  .  .  good 
chance!" 

He  stood  up,  and  slowly  turning  as  on  a  pivot, 
scanned  the  whole  assembly  with  serene  and 
haughty  composure.  A  lantern,  close  by,  threw 
so  generous  a  light  upon  him  that  for  the  moment 
his  torso  of  white  linen,  his  olive-golden  face,  with 
its  fine  curves  of  eyebrow,  lip,  and  nostril,  be 
came  the  chief  conspicuous  details  in  a  crowded 
picture.  Rama  took  a  thoughtful  survey,  round 
about  twice,  as  if  hunting  for  a  friend.  His 
slender  brown  fingers  played  with  the  gold 
chain  carelessly,  and  twiddled  the  packet  on  his 
breast. 


LAMP-COMEDY  199 

"Capital.  There's  our  man."  He  sat  down, 
smiling  oddly.  "All  going  well  ...  I  hoped 
so!" 

As  though  he  had  given  a  signal,  the  orchestra 
ceased  its  braying.  The  musicians  —  Javan 
boys  caught  in  the  wilds,  and  transformed  with 
blue  and  buttons  —  now  laid  aside  their  nickeled 
horns  and  cornets,  skipped  about  the  tent,  low 
ered  and  blew  out  the  lanterns.  Their  leader, 
a  gray-haired  Australian  with  the  face  of  a  beach 
comber,  squeezed  a  few  last  groans  from  his 
accordeon,  and  rising  threaded  his  way  to  the 
rear.  All  faces  turned  to  watch,  as  he  began 
tampering  with  a  black  machine  that  pointed, 
Gatling-wise,  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd.  Dark 
ness  fell.  A  vicious  hiss  and  sputter  succeeded; 
a  searchlight  ray  tilted  through  the  gloom ;  a  white 
circle,  springing  out  on  the  curtain  ahead,  turned 
suddenly  to  gray ;  and  there,  before  the  murmur 
ing  company,  flickered  and  shifted  the  great  Gam- 
bar  Idup,  the  Live  Picture  of  a  House  on  Fire. 

The  djinns  were  liberated;  the  Lamp  had 
begun  its  comedy.  The  Sultan,  though  playing 
cynic  at  first,  grew  more  and  more  gravely  ab 
sorbed  in  these  quick-changing  dreams.  David 
could  never  recall  more  than  a  disturbed  and 
fleeting  impression  of  them ;  in  part  because  the 
third-class  ranks,  as  one  man,  climbed  upon  their 
stools  before  him,  and  peered  back  into  the  glaring 


200  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

nozzle  of  the  machine,  to  study  this  living  magic 
at  the  source;  in  part  because,  at  every  sound 
outside  the  open  door,  he  strained  both  eye  and 
ear  for  movements  of  travel  on  the  highway ;  in 
part  because  there  crept  over  him  that  gradual 
unrest  which  comes,  or  seems  to  come,  from 
being  watched  by  a  person  unknown  and  un- 
discoverable,  in  a  crowd.  He  caught  himself 
peeping  at  his  neighbors,  and  fidgeting. 

"  Rama,"  he  leaned  across,  to  whisper ;  "  Rama, 
when  you  stood  up  then,  — what  was  it?" 

The  Sultan  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  the 
shivering  gray  light  on  the  screen.  A  nervous 
Parisian  bridegroom  there,  dressed  for  his  wed 
ding,  now  ran  at  top  speed  through  fragments  of 
suburban  and  rural  scenery,  leading  a  furious 
pack  of  shopkeepers,  peasants,  garbage-men, 
gendarmes,  dogs,  and  fat  women,  to  the  Inevi 
table  Catastrophe  in  a  duck-pond. 

"When  I  stood  up?  Oh,  yes,"  came  the  an 
swer.  Rama  nodded  impatiently  toward  his 
left  shoulder.  "  Over  there  —  clear  over  —  by 
the  canvas.  Your  friend  the  stable  parrot.  He 
saw  us.  It 's  all  right." 

David  looked  sharply  along  the  row.  They 
themselves  were  visible  enough,  in  the  stray 
gleam  from  a  lamp  outdoors.  The  shimmering 
screen,  also,  threw  reflections  that  revealed  a 
few  dusky  faces  near  by.  But  elsewhere,  the 


LAMP-COMEDY  201 

tent  stretched  as  black  as  a  cavern.  David  gave 
up  the  scrutiny,  and  tried,  by  watching  the  in 
ane  pictures  come  and  go,  to  forget  his  uncom 
fortable  knowledge.  Somebody,  none  the  less, 
remained  staring  at  him  from  the  dark. 

Number  Eight  of  the  Lamp- Comedy  was  now 
extinguished.  Number  Nine,  "Bath  Not  Finish- 
Finish"  (portraying  a  frantic  gentleman  who 
would  undress,  but  whose  clothes  flew  back  and 
multiplied  upon  him),  passed  under  the  mild, 
polite  regard  of  the  audience.  There  remained 
only  Number  Ten,  Dansa  Nama  de  Cake  Walk. 
The  boys  in  buttons  went  scampering  forward 
to  their  station,  caught  up  their  horns,  blew  an 
Asiatic  blast,  and  began  vamping  their  accom 
paniment  to  the  Australian's  accordeon,  and  the 
Australian  idea  of  negro  melody. 

"No  more  pictures?" 

The  Lamp  emitted  nothing  but  glare,  striking 
on  the  sheet  a  vacant  circle,  intensely  white. 

"No  more  pictures?"  repeated  the  Sultan 
mournfully;  and  then,  catching  his  breath  in  a 
little  gasp,  "  Oh,  look,  Bowman !  Look  at  her ! 
See,  see!" 

He  craned  forward  eagerly,  and  David  with 
him. 

Along  the  platform,  with  a  skip  and  a  bound 
into  the  target  of  light,  danced  a  girl  in  black  and 
red,  her  petticoats  foaming  at  the  edge  of  short 


202  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

skirts.  She  tossed  her  head  with  a  flounce  of 
amazingly  yellow  hair,  raised  a  powerful  voice, 
and  began  to  sing. 

"What  action!"  whispered  Rama.  "Look,  by 
Jove!  What  an  action  that  girl  has!" 

It  was  the  lady  of  the  anonymous  hotel  at 
Sourabaya,  the  daughter  of  music  and  tempera 
ment,  Miss  Mary  Naves.  Prancing  like  a  filly, 
she  crossed  and  recrossed  the  lighted  circle,  her 
body  swaying  backward  at  a  ridiculous  angle,  her 
feet  climbing  as  on  a  treadmill,  her  hands  flap 
ping  loosely  to  the  rhythm  of  brass  music.  Back 
and  forth  she  went,  singing  loudly,  —  a  vivid 
carnival  figure  in  scarlet,  black,  and  yellow. 

"What  energy!"  exclaimed  the  Sultan,  again 
and  again.  "What  action!  My  word,  what  an 
action!  It  beats  the  gee-gees,  eh?"  He  nodded, 
approving  critically.  "  Her  hair  is  bright  as  new 
hemp.  I  say,  Bowman,  is  your  young  lady  any 
thing  like  her  ?" 

The  audience  did  not  share  his  delight.  They 
watched  the  dancer  with  a  sedate  pity,  like  men 
long  schooled  in  the  traditions  not  only  of  music 
but  of  grace  in  women;  and  when  Miss  Naves 
had  cut  her  highest  caper,  run  trippingly  from 
the  platform,  and  disappeared  behind  the  cur 
tain,  all  hands  rose  in  silence  to  file  out.  The 
foreign  artist  had  won  a  few  tolerant  grins,  but 
nothing  more. 


LAMP-COMEDY  203 

"A  clumsy  ronggeng"  laughed  a  native.  "A 
clumsy  ronggeng,  that  Dutch  woman." 

"True,"  replied  another  voice.  "And  her  col 
ors  pained  the  eye." 

The  Australian,  with  a  sour,  dejected  air,  shut 
off  his  lamp.  The  crowd  streamed  out  in  dark 
ness. 

"Wait,  Rama."  David  set  his  back  against  a 
tent-pole,  and  peered  closely  into  all  the  faces 
moving  past.  "I  want  to  catch  that  fellow  who 
stared  at  us." 

"I  doubt  if  you  can."  Rama  lingered  willingly 
enough,  but  bore  no  hand  in  the  search ;  for  his 
eyes  never  left  the  platform  and  the  darkened 
sheet.  He  appeared  to  expect  another  vision  of 
delight.  "  How  large  and  fine  that  girl  was !  Do 
you  suppose,  Bowman,  we  could  talk  with  her  ? 
—  You  won't  find  your  man,"  he  added  petu 
lantly.  "Where's  the  use?  It  was  your  stable 
parrot,  and  he's  gone.  We  shan't  find  him.  But 
he  shall  find  us ;  and  before  long,  unless  I  'm 
greatly  mistaken." 

The  Sultan  proved  a  prophet,  at  least  by  half. 
They  caught  no  one.  Face  after  brown  face 
flowed  calmly  by  in  the  throng ;  but  not  one  which 
they  knew,  or  which,  in  passing,  lighted  with 
more  than  a  mild  glance  of  interest.  The  final 
stragglers  trailed  out.  The  tent  yawned  empty. 

" Slipped  under  the  canvas.  He'll  come  again ; 


204  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

no  hurry."  The  Sultan  turned  away,  sighing. 
"Should  like  to  see  that  girl,  though,  close  to." 

Poor  Mary  Naves  could  ill  spare  any  such  bits 
of  admiration.  Fate,  at  that  moment,  was  dealing 
her  a  measure  of  something  else.  The  Australian, 
carrying  a  lantern,  had  slouched  behind  the  white 
screen. 

"Crying,  are  you?"  he  snarled.  "Well,  you 
got  the  right !  You  got  the  right  to  cry !" 

A  new  kind  of  Living  Comedy  flickered,  black 
and  magnified,  on  the  deserted  theatre,  —  an 
after-piece  more  simple,  direct,  and  real  than  any 
which  had  played  by  invention.  The  Austra 
lian's  lean  and  hulking  silhouette  overtopped  the 
sheet.  Below,  another  shadow  sprang  into  place, 
—  the  likeness  of  Mary  Naves,  who  sat  with  her 
head  propped  in  her  hands,  and  wept. 

"You  know  why,  too!"  rose  the  spiteful  voice 
of  her  master.  "They  all  saw  it,  an'  so  did  I,  an' 
so  did  you!  What  in  God's  world  ever  tempted 
me  to  hire  —  An'  every  night  the  same !  Why, 
you  know  what  you  are  ?  You  're  a  failure ! 
Rank.  That 's  what!"  He  broke  into  loud  and 
virulent  oaths.  "  Voice  ?  About  as  much  as  a 
More-pork!  Go  on,  cry — " 

The  shadow  of  Mary  Naves  made  no  reply, 
but  cowered  somewhat  lower,  and  shook  some 
what  more  than  the  guttering  lantern  warranted. 

"Cry!   Y'  ought  to,  you  —  " 


LAMP-COMEDY  205 

David  had  seen  enough  of  this  sciomachy,  had 
heard  too  much.  He  rounded  both  platform  and 
sheet,  to  burst  in  between  the  puppets  them 
selves.  The  unfortunate  dancer  —  now  dressed 
in  a  plain  white  that  somehow  made  her  the 
more  forlorn  —  sat  huddled  on  a  stool.  She  cried, 
not  from  rage  or  woman's  habit,  but  with  great 
sobs  of  loneliness. 

David's  chief  knuckle  vibrated  under  the 
Australian's  nose. 

"You!"  he  said.  "You!"  The  fellow  backed 
gently  away,  till  he  stepped  on  his  accordeon. 
He  stood  there,  pale  and  chopfallen,  without 
spirit  enough  to  pick  the  thing  up. 

"You  say  another  word  to  that  woman!" 

Miss  Naves  lifted  her  face,  all  woe-begone; 
then  covered  it  again,  as  though  such  deliverers 
were  nothing. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  said  David.  "  Can't 
I  help  you  ?" 

"No-o-o!  You're  a  man,"  she  whimpered. 
"You  ain't  a  wo-wo- woman!" 

A  bland  voice  rose  in  persuasion. 

"Madam!"  The  Sultan,  with  a  smile  at  once 
droll  and  winning,  stood  before  her.  "Now  I. 
I  enjoyed  your  dancing,  so  very  much.  Really  I 
did,  you  know.  It  was  —  ah  —  extremely  beau 
tiful." 

The  Failure  once  more  lifted  her  yellow  head. 


206  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

From  glistening  eyes  she  darted  a  queer  look  at 
the  Sultan,  —  a  look  half  in  gratitude,  half  in 
distrust  of  his  compliment  and  his  race. 

"  Oh,  go  away !"  she  moaned.  The  Amazonian 
shoulders  heaved.  "  Get  out,  all  o'  you !  I  don't 
care  now  —  I  —  I  —  Oh,  let  me  alone !" 

Her  comforters,  embarrassed  at  this  repulse, 
found  nothing  adequate  to  say.  The  Australian 
sourly  grinned,  and,  taking  heart,  nursed  his 
accordeon.  Silence  followed,  until  broken  by 
sounds  from  without. 

A  slow  thud  of  hoofs  drew  near  in  the  road. 
Horses  were  climbing  up-hill  at  a  walk. 

"Here  she  is,"  the  Sultan  whispered.  "Your 
lady  's  coming.  Miss  Arnot  —  " 

The  prompting  was  needless. 

"Remember  what  I  tell  you!"  cried  David. 
"I'll  be  back!"  With  a  threatening  nod  to  the 
Master  of  the  Lamp,  he  skirted  the  platform  and 
went  hurdling  over  campstools  in  the  tent. 

Through  the  bazaar,  already  half  dismantled, 
he  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  highway.  Three  swing 
ing  lanterns,  borne  by  barefoot  grooms,  lighted 
an  approaching  cavalcade,  —  two  women  and  a 
bulky  man,  all  clothed  and  helmeted  in  white, 
and  mounted  on  brisk  ponies,  homeward  bound. 

"Good-evening."  The  horseman  raised  his 
crop,  in  civil  answer  to  David's  bow.  Another 
voice  echoed  his  words,  a  little  blaze-faced  pony 


LAMP-COMEDY  207 

swerved  to  the  roadside,  and  from  her  saddle 
Mary  Arnot  leaned  to  search  the  darkness. 

"  Is  it  you,  Mr.  Bowman  ?"  The  hint  of  eager 
ness  in  her  voice,  the  least  half-tone  of  expecta 
tion,  repaid  all  his  endeavor.  "Mrs.  Hemmes, 
here  he  is!" 

A  pleasant,  plump  little  matron  drew  rein, 
smiling  in  the  lantern  light.  Her  husband,  the 
burly  cavalier,  wheeled  his  mount  and  shook 
hands  heartily. 

"You'll  come  up  with  us,  won't  you,  Mr. 
Bowman?"  he  propounded,  in  the  slow,  kindly 
bass  of  a  heavyweight.  "  Our  bungalow  has  a 
bachelors'  wing." 

"I'd  be  very  glad,"  began  David;  "but  I'm 
staying  with  a  friend  —  "  He  turned  uneasily 
for  a  backward  glance,  and  found  the  Sultan 
standing  at  his  elbow,  —  a  cool,  sedate  young 
figure  from  the  old  world.  "I'm  staying  with  my 
friend  the  —  ah  —  that  is  —  Tuan  Rama." 

The  Sultan  bowed  to  all,  but  lowest,  and  with 
least  pride,  to  Mary  Arnot. 

"  Oh,  bring  him  along,"  cried  the  jovial  planter. 
He  stared  closer  for  an  instant,  then  smiled 
wickedly.  "Tuan  Rama,  I  think  we  met  once. 
Penang,  was  it  ?" 

The  Sultan  gave  a  perceptible  start,  and 
lowered  his  fez  in  gloomy  acknowledgment. 

"That  may  have  been,"  he  replied,  sulking. 


208  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

"It's  all  right,"  laughed  the  other.  "I've  no 
connection  with  government.  I  do  hope  you'll 
give  us  the  honor." 

The  offended  prince  bowed  stiffly.  As  he  did 
so,  light  from  a  shifting  lantern  ran  and  rippled 
on  his  gold  chain. 

Miss  Arnot's  pony  winced  and  gathered  his 
elbows,  as  though  misunderstanding  some  move 
ment  of  his  rider.  The  girl  herself  said  nothing, 
but  her  eyes  dwelled  curiously  on  the  suspended 
packet. 

"I  know,  madam."  Rama  nodded,  looking 
up  at  her  by  stealth.  "It  is  yours,  I  know.  And 
dear  to  you.  But  will  you  let  me  keep  it,  only 
for  a  little  ?  I  have  made  a  wow  —  no :  what  you 
call,  a  vow?  A  promise.  You  will  let  me  take 
this,  till  to-morrow  ?" 

He  touched  the  packet  lightly.  The  girl  looked 
over  to  David,  wondering ;  then  back  to  the  slim, 
courtly  figure  that  waited  beside  her  stirrup. 
Pride  and  youthful  melancholy  she  must  have 
read  in  Rama's  face,  and  something  more;  for 
her  own  lighted  with  a  grave  smile. 

"Keep  it  for  me,"  she  answered.  "I  don't  un 
derstand  at  all.  But  I  can  trust  you,  Tuan  Rama." 

The  Sultan  bowed,  and  falling  back  a  pace 
with  military  precision,  tossed  up  his  head  like 
a  victorious  king.  His  face,  in  the  lantern  light, 
shone  transfigured. 


LAMP-COMEDY  209 

"Ah!"  He  loosed  a  great  breath,  as  though 
relieved  from  pressure;  and  gripping  David's 
hand  secretly,  "Bowman,"  he  whispered,  "it  is 
true!  The  old  tales  and  poems  do  not  lie!" 

There  was  no  time  to  ask  his  meaning.  White 
man  and  Malay  stood  side  by  side,  admiring  her 
together,  when  suddenly  past  them  ran  a  tall 
woman  in  white,  headlong  for  the  centre  of  the 
group. 

"O  lady,  lady!"  wailed  poor  Mary  Naves, 
flinging  her  big  arms  helplessly  over  the  bridle- 
rein,  and  mingling  her  hemp-colored  hair  with 
the  bay  locks  of  the  pony,  "O  Miss  Arnot,  you 
was  good  to  me  aboard  ship !  You  're  a  wo- 
wo- woman!"  The  mane  stifled  her  blubbering. 
"You  can  help  me!  Can't  you?  Can't  you?  I 
want  to  go  home,  and  I  ain't  got  any!" 

The  other  Mary,  dismissing  her  own  troubles, 
bent  over  this  lowly  namesake.  They  two  had 
withdrawn,  apart  and  alone,  like  Rama  at  his 
evening  prayers.  The  rude  glow  of  the  lanterns, 
tossed  upward  from  beneath,  showed  David 
more  than  he  had  guessed,  even  at  the  outset. 
The  girl's  face  above  him  was  the  face  in  the 
silver  locket,  not  only  alive,  but  endowed  with 
the  further  life  of  pity  and  sisterhood. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BATU   BLAH 

THE  planter's  wife  backed  her  little  Timor  mare 
alongside,  to  give  that  reinforcement  which  wo 
man  has  ready  for  woman.  They  held  a  con 
clave  in  the  open  road,  with  no  men  admitted. 
The  bright-haired  fugitive  told  her  story,  dolorous 
bit  by  bit,  through  the  pony's  mane. 

"Poor  thing!"  The  matron's  voice  escaped 
their  privacy.  "  No  .  .  .  Quite  right,  Mary  dear 
.  .  .  No :  we  can't  leave  her  in  such  .  .  .  Why, 
of  course!" 

Miss  Arnot  laid  her  hand  on  the  other  Mary's 
shoulder,  and  sat  thinking.  Her  eyes  lighted; 
a  whimsical  smile  played  about  them,  and  trem 
bled  at  her  lips.  David  knew  that  smile  as  well 
as  though  he  had  seen  it  before.  She  spoke,  — 
at  some  length,  but  in  what  manner  he  could  not 
hear.  Mrs.  Hemmes  made  a  quick  gesture  of 
surprise,  laughed  once  outright,  and  shook  with 
silent  mirth. 

"But  seriously,"  continued  the  girl,    "I  do 
need  one.   Chatra  forced  me  to  dismiss  her  .  .  .^ 
And  in  this  way,  at  least  to  Singapore  ..." 


BATU  BLAH 

Miss  Naves  let  go  her  clasp,  and  rose,  un 
gainly  but  ecstatic. 

"O  lady!  Try  me!"  She  pawed  at  the  girl's 
hand,  tried  to  capture  it,  tried  to  embrace  her, 
saddle,  reins,  and  all.  "  O  miss !  I  've  stood 
that 's  long 's  I  could !  Do  gimme  just  one  chance ! 
I  'd  follow  you  over  the  world's  end,  miss,  let 
alone  Singapore!  Try  me,  oh  do!  God  bless 
you  for  thinking  it!" 

The  pony,  sharing  by  mistake  some  of  this 
wild  endearment,  pranced  and  reared.  Miss 
Arnot  managed  him  quietly,  without  looking 
away  from  her  petitioner. 

"There,  there!"  Smiling,  she  rebuked  them 
both.  "I  won't  have  a  maid  who  frightens 
horses!  But  we  can  try  each  other.  Come  to 
Mrs.  Hemmes's  bungalow,  and  we'll  talk  of  this 
further." 

Stock-still  in  clumsy  adoration,  Miss  Naves 
looked  up  at  her  through  brimming  eyes. 

"You'll  never  be  sorry,  miss;  never!"  she 
declared  hoarsely ;  then  turning  away,  took  the 
pony's  muzzle  between  her  hands,  and  kissed 
the  white  blaze  on  his  forehead.  "There.  You'll 
find  me  quiet  and  willing,  miss,  always ;  and  — 
and  now  I  '11  go  speak  about  my  box." 

She  parted  the  lantern-bearers,  and  slipped  off 
toward  the  tent,  dabbing  her  eyes  as  she  ran.  The 
burly  Mr.  Hemmes  chuckled,  and  rode  after. 


THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

"O  Mary,  my  dear,"  laughed  his  wife.  "What 
next  ?  A  parable :  I've  seen  a  parable  acted !  Do 
you  always  pick  your  servants  out  of  byways  and 
hedges?" 

Miss  Arnot  could  parry  questions,  not  without 
skill. 

"No,"  she  retorted  slyly.  "Chatra  came  re 
commended  by  you,  Kate.  This  poor  silly  thing 
is  quite  honest.  We  talked,  on  board  ship." 

Hemmes  cantered  back,  presently,  with  the 
blonde  Amazon  skipping  beside  his  pony. 

"All  settled.  Come  on!"  he  cried  gayly.  The 
little  squadron  started  up-hill  once  more,  the 
lantern-coolies  ahead,  Miss  Naves  between  the 
two  horsewomen,  Rama  and  David  marching 
as  rear-guard.  The  stalwart  proprietor  of  Batu 
Blah  rode  alongside,  in  high  spirits. 

"My  word,  we  frightened  the  accordeon  fel 
low!"  he  proclaimed.  "What  do  you  suppose, 
Kate  ?  That  man  in  the  tent  was  old  Shypoo 
Anderson,  no  less !  Used  to  hang  round  Cossack, 
in  the  eighties,  —  my  bachelor  days.  Hardest 
case  on  the  beach;  always  beast-o,  he  was,  un 
commonly  beast-o,  even  for  Cossack.  What? 
Just  now  ?  No,  he  gave  us  no  trouble.  I  knew 
him  too  well.  Badly  wanted,  in  too  many  towns. 
Old  Shypoo  Anderson!" 

The  big  planter  laughed,  like  a  man  sharply 
reminded  of  other  days,  —  of  the  rough  days 


BATU  BLAH  213 

when  he  was  younger,  lighter  in  the  saddle, 
handier  with  ropes  and  oars.  While  the  company 
climbed,  horse  and  foot,  he  beguiled  their  way 
with  tales  and  memories ;  for  this  bulky  married 
man,  it  seemed,  had  been  a  rover  among  tropic 
islands,  and  still  carried  in  his  head  queer  ports 
and  forsaken  harbors,  as  a  citizen  carries  the 
names  of  familiar  streets. 

"Shypoo  Anderson!  How  much  a  man  for 
gets!"  he  lamented.  "And  Tin-ribs,  and  Don- 
garra,  and  the  smell  of  Feed's  store!"  His  talk, 
now  fairly  turned  loose,  went  ranging  among  old 
times  and  odd  places,  —  east  and  west  from 
the  Maldives  to  Christmas,  north  and  south  from 
Macquarie  to  "Eight-Piecee-Hill"  of  the  Lu- 
Chus.  A  chance  word  from  David  brought  him 
quickly  back  to  the  rear.  "Philippines,  did 
you  say,  Mr.  Bowman  ?  Why,  then  you  must 
know  .  .  ." 

Thus,  chatting  steadily,  he  marshaled  them 
past  the  tall  Split  Rock  which  gave  its  name  to 
his  plantation,  and  up  a  carriage-road  winding 
under  dark  cinchonas.  A  stone  bungalow,  white 
washed,  and  lighted  by  small  veranda  lamps, 
glimmered  before  them  like  a  frosted  birthday 
cake  of  Doric  outlines.  The  troop  swung  round 
the  back-nets  of  a  tennis-court,  rode  through 
a  dense  and  spacious  flower-garden,  and  halted 
at  the  veranda. 


214  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

"  Justus  dear,"  called  Mrs.  Hemmes,  dismount 
ing,  and  cutting  her  husband  short  in  his  live 
liest  narrative,  "will  you  have  the  boys  make  all 
ready  in  the  bachelors'  wing?  Mary,  I'll  show 
the  maid  your  quarters.  Come,  Justus,  come; 
you  dreadful  old  gossip!" 

The  planter  laughed,  broke  off  his  deep-voiced 
Odyssey  of  the  archipelagoes,  and  meekly  went 
about  the  errands  of  his  Penelope. 

Miss  Arnot,  David,  and  the  prince,  thus  left 
to  themselves  in  the  veranda,  had  soon  com 
fortably  ranged  their  chairs  round  a  table,  where 
they  might  talk  by  lamplight.  The  mountain  air, 
instead  of  growing  cool,  had  turned  oppressive 
and  sultry ;  and  far  down  before  their  view,  where 
night  obliterated  the  plains,  heat-lightning  ran  in 
tremors,  and  revealed  white  edges  of  cloud. 

The  Sultan  would  not  sit  until  he  had  bowed 
formally,  and  spoken. 

"Madam."  His  pale  brown  face  wore  an  un 
wonted  brightness;  and  under  their  curved, 
thick  lids,  his  great  eyes  twinkled  with  a  new  vi 
vacity,  a  kind  of  elfin  mischief.  "  Madam,  there 
are  persons  who  would  not  fling  a  bone  to  Kat- 
mir,  the  dog  of  the  Seven  Sleepers.  And  there  are 
fools  who  give  without  thinking.  But  to  think 
and  grant  quickly  —  to  think  and  give  rightly, 
while  a  horse  can  flick  his  ear  —  that  is  the  trade 
of  princes." 


BATU  BLAH  215 

Miss  Arnot  looked  a  good  deal  puzzled. 

"I  don't  quite  follow." 

"I  mean,"  said  the  Sultan, — and  he  lifted 
the  packet  by  its  gold  chain,  —  "you  never 
asked  me  why.  You  thought,  and  said,  'Keep 
it.'  You  honored  a  stranger;  and  suddenly, — 
that  is  double  honor." 

She  laughed,  and  put  the  compliment  aside, 
motioning  toward  his  chair. 

"A  man's  face  often  speaks  for  him,  Tuan 
Rama." 

"It  may  be."  He  sat  down,  beside  David ;  and 
for  a  time,  smiling  and  meditating,  looked  out 
across  the  vague  epaulment  of  garden  flowers, 
to  where  the  heat-lightning  fluttered  the  clouds 
above  the  plains.  "It  may  be.  Yet  there's 
something  more.  And  what  ?  It  is  hard  to  say 
—  hard.  See :  it  is  thus.  A  butterfly  hawk  — 
very  tiny  —  flies,  very  quick,  from  one  tree  to 
another  tree.  What  man  will  take  a  pen,  and 
draw  you  the  line  that  bird  has  drawn  ?  Or  what 
strong  man  will  break  that  line  ?  The  bird  spun 
it,  of  air.  It  is  a  thing  done,  forever.  An  act. 
Stronger  than  iron,  but  not  seen  at  all.  So  be 
tween  souls  .  .  ." 

Rama's  voice,  gentle  and  persuading,  trailed 
off  into  silence.  His  brown  hand,  groping  before 
him  as  for  some  word  at  the  finger-tips,  dropped 
into  his  lap. 


216  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

"Oh,  very  hard  to  say!"  he  laughed;  then, 
appealing  to  Miss  Arnot,  with  a  sudden,  bright, 
boyish  look,  "  Will  you  let  me  tell  you  in  a  story  ?" 

David  never  liked  him  better,  or  the  girl  half 
so  well,  as  now  when  they  agreed,  and  turned,  \ 
with  a  nod  and  a  smile,  for  his  consent. 

The  Sultan,  watching  the  soft  play  of  lightning 
over  the  trees,  took  up  his  allegory. 

"In  the  old  days,"  he  began  slowly,  "Rajah 
Suran  marched  upon  his  elephant  to  battle.  In 
his  army  went  a  youth  named  Perak,  my  mother's 
forefather.  At  the  Emerald  Place,  they  met  the 
host  of  Rajah  Chulan  coming  on  like  sea-waves, 
with  horses  and  elephants  like  islands,  and  a 
golden  jungle  of  banners.  The  armies  rushed 
together.  The  shock  was  loud  as  Gabriel's  voice, 
or  the  Blast  that  makes  All,  Nothing.  Bull  ele 
phant  and  bull  elephant  whetted  their  tusks,  and 
gored ;  horses  bit  horses ;  the  dust  and  the  flying  of 
arrows  blinded  the  sky  like  an  eclipse,  so  that  in 
the  darkness  men  cried  amok  on  their  friends,  till 
blood  laid  the  dust.  And  Rajah  Suran  pierced 
Rajah  Chulan  with  an  arrow,  so  that  he  fell  dead 
from  his  high  elephant,  like  a  monkey  from  a 
palm.  All  this  is  written  in  Sajarat  Malayu. 

"Now  in  that  battle  thousands  of  brave  men 
fought,  and  tens  of  thousands ;  but  the  bravest 
of  all  was  the  young  man  Perak,  my  forefather 
and  my  mother's ;  for  he  raged  among  them  like 


BATU  BLAH  217 

a  tiger's  cub  among  chickens,  when  they  run 
squawking.  So  all  men  cried : '  Perak,  the  bravest 
in  two  armies!' J 

Rama  spoke  in  a  low  chant ;  he  made  no  ges 
ture,  but  his  face  glowed. 

"  The  women  waited  in  the  city,"  he  continued. 
"Ampu,  the  rajah's  daughter,  sat  on  a  balcony 
of  black  stone.  She  was  a  brave  woman,  of  lofty 
spirit.  The  army  returned,  and  passed  below 
her.  She  wore  in  her  hair  a  single  champaka 
blossom.  (This  Ampu  was  very  beautiful,  they 
say  —  beautiful  as  my  mother,  who  died  when  I 
was  a  child.)  So  the  nobles  passed,  in  their 
finest  war-clothes,  and  the  horsemen,  and  the 
elephants  with  painted  foreheads;  they  all 
marched  by  in  order,  and  young  Perak  among 
them,  on  foot,  plainly  dressed.  No  word  of  him 
had  reached  the  city;  for  the  host  came  in  sol 
emnly,  without  shouting.  But  Ampu  looked 
down  from  her  black  stone  balcony,  and  Perak, 
up  from  the  crowd.  And  so  their  eyes  met." 

Rama  paused,  bent  on  his  hearers  a  troubled 
frown,  and  like  a  marksman  who  has  missed  his 
aim,  gave  a  short  laugh  of  vexation. 

"  How  shall  you  understand  ?"  he  cried.  "  This 
is  not  a  story  of  love  I  am  telling !  —  Ampu  saw 
the  young  man.  The  look  passed  between  them, 
as  I  have  said :  as  the  little  butterfly  hawk  darts 
from  one  tree  to  another.  She  had  never  heard 


218  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

Perak's  name.  He  was  marching  among  ten 
thousand  men.  But  the  rajah's  daughter  took 
the  single  blossom  from  her  hair,  and  tossed  it 
down  to  him  —  to  him  alone.  And  Perak,  catch 
ing  it,  marched  on.  —  That  is  all  my  story." 

The  speaker  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  but 
watched  Miss  Arnot  eagerly,  with  wide,  serious 
eyes.  David  watched  also.  The  lamplight 
touched  her  hair  in  bronze  gleams,  powdery 
specks  of  radiance,  like  the  sunshine  motes  in  a 
darkened  room.  She  sat  looking  out  from  the 
veranda,  thoughtfully.  Over  a  dark  fringe  of 
cinchonas,  the  clouds  came  rolling  up,  now  and 
then  blanched  by  the  warm  lightning,  that  struck 
through  them  as  through  ragged  paper-lanterns. 
Thunder  had  been  grumbling  in  the  plains ;  and 
now  a  nearer  burst  of  it  came  shuddering  up 
the  ravine,  like  surf  crashing  into  a  split  pro 
montory. 

"I  think,"  said  Mary  Arnot,  when  the  sound 
rolled  aside,  "I  think  I  understand  you,  Tuan 
Rama."  Turning,  she  met  his  eyes;  her  own, 
dark  blue  and  lighted  from  within,  answered  him 
frankly  and  freely.  "  Your  story  makes  me  very 
proud,  and  very  glad.  If  I  could  show  you  that  I 
understand — "  She  paused,  recalling  something. 
A  fine  color  flushed  in  her  cheeks.  "Will  this 
help,  in  part  ?  We,  in  our  tongue,  have  a  poet 
who  tells  us  —  how  is  it,  again  ?  — 


BATU  BLAH  219 

"  *  To  count  the  life  of  battle  good, 

And  dear  the  land  that  gave  you  birth, 

And  dearer  yet  the  brotherhood 

That  binds  the  brave  of  all  the  earth.'  " 

The  Sultan  whipped  out  of  his  chair,  bowed  to 
her,  and  stood  erect. 

"Thank  you!"  His  voice  trembled  with  de 
light.  "I  thought  it  was  so,  before.  I  knew  it 
was  so,  when  we  met!" 

Footsteps  returned  along  the  tiled  veranda. 
Miss  Arnot  rose. 

"  Our  hostess  has  had  a  long  day  of  it.  We  shall 
see  each  other  to-morrow  ?"  And  before  Mrs. 
Hemmes  came  within  earshot,  the  girl  held  out  her 
hand  quickly  to  David.  "  You  have  forgiven  me  ?" 

"Forgiven  you?"  he  stammered,  in  bewilder 
ment.  "For  what?" 

"For  thinking  of  myself,"  she  answered.  "For 
sending  you  into  danger.  As  if  —  as  if  —  Well, 
I  was  ashamed !  Have  you  ?  Do  you  ?" 

At  that,  David  forgot  everything.  It  was  the 
fault  of  her  question;  her  hand;  her  eyes,  that 
shone  so  near  and  with  such  candor.  A  hundred 
resolves  and  cautions,  well  made  and  long  pent, 
flew  down  the  wind  like  straws. 

"  Miss  Arnot,"  he  blurted,  "  there  should  never 
be  such  talk  between  us!" 

Her  hand  was  gone  in  a  flash. 

"Good-night,    then."     Her    smile    remained 


220  THE  TWISTED   FOOT/ 

friendly,  but  there  was  trouble  in  it,  and  altera 
tion.  "  Thank  you,  Mr.  Bowman ;  and  you,  Tuan 
Rama.  —  Yes,  Kate,  I  'm  coming."  She  drew 
back,  as  Mrs.  Hemmes  arrived.  "Good-night!" 

The  two  women  had  hardly  disappeared  into 
the  house,  when  the  clouds,  rolling  up  from  the 
plains,  carried  the  breastwork  of  cinchona  tops, 
and  swept  overhead.  Thunder  shook  the  whole 
plantation ;  the  air  became  a  subtle  white  flame, 
quivering  everywhere,  and  showing  all  the  leaves 
a  brilliant  green,  all  the  garden  flowers  motionless, 
bright  red  and  vivid  white.  Then  in  blinding 
darkness,  without  wind,  a  few  heavy  drops  of  rain 
spat  on  the  driveway  and  the  steps. 

"Shower's  coming,"  said  David,  gruffly. 
"Let's  to  quarters." 

In  the  bachelors'  wing,  a  low,  detached  build 
ing  on  the  right,  their  veranda  lamps  burned 
under  a  trellis  or  pergola.  Toward  this  the  two 
friends  ran,  pelted  with  multiplying  drops. 

Once  in  shelter  between  the  lamps,  Rama 
broke  out  laughing,  quietly.  The  rain  had 
streaked  his  face  like  tears,  and  beaded  the  links 
of  his  chain  with  pendants  brighter  than  glass. 

"  Not  to  her !"  he  panted,  holding  David's  arm. 
"Not  to  her!  Don't  try,  my  dear  chap."  His  big 
eyes  danced  in  shrewd  and  sober  mockery.  "  You 
cannot  talk  to  women !  You  have  a  heart  of  gold, 
but  the  brains  of  a  buffalo!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AMOK 

DAVID,  by  no  means  in  such  high  feather,  flung 
his  borrowed  kriss  clattering  on  the  table. 

"  I  dare  say  they're  not  very  good,"  he  growled. 

"What?"  laughed  Rama.    "What  are  not?" 

"My  brains,"  came  the  surly  answer.  "But 
they  let  me  see  one  thing  plain  enough." 

"Really?"  mocked  the  Sultan.  "And  what 
is  that  ?" 

David  looked  down,  askance,  at  the  gold  chain, 
the  bright  beads  of  water,  and  the  packet. 

"That  thing,"  he  replied. 

"Oh,  this?"  Rama  dandled  the  necklace, 
proudly.  "It's  all  right,  dear  chap.  She  said  so. 
Don't  fret.  We  understand  each  other,  that  girl 
and  I." 

David  wheeled  short,  and  began  a  little  sentry- 
go  up  and  down  the  veranda.  As  he  paced,  the 
lightning  came  and  went  in  unequal  flashes,  that 
turned  the  flame  of  the  lamp  to  a  colorless  smoke, 
and  the  projecting  vines  of  the  trellis,  outside, 
to  a  sharp  black  network  aching  on  the  retina. 

Rama  suddenly  blocked  the  way. 


222  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

"Come,  come,"  he  entreated.  "What  have 
I  said,  Bowman  ?  I  have  made  you  angry  ?" 

Thus  halted  and  outfaced,  David  came  forth 
plump  with  all  his  discontents. 

"  Rama,  you  ought  —  we  ought  to  know  bet 
ter!  Oh,  there's  no  reason  for  you  to  look  sur 
prised!  I  think  you  remember  what  happened 
by  the  Sultan  Muda's  grave ;  and  how  poor  Amat 
went,  this  morning ;  and  the  particular  pains  you 
took  to  show  yourself  down  there  in  Shypoo 
What-you-call-it's  tent!" 

"Ah!"  said  his  friend  slowly.  "You  mean 
the  Thing  —  whatever  it  is  —  the  Thing  will 
follow  us  here  ?" 

"You're  a  dab  at  guessing,"  answered  David. 

The  Sultan  squinted  up  with  eyes  full  of  sa 
tirical  cunning. 

"O  wise  man!"  he  cried.  "Of  course  the 
Thing  will!  I  wanted  it  to!  Are  you  afraid ?" 

David  wagged  his  head,  muttering. 

''You  bet  I'm  afraid."  Anger  and  worry  con 
tended  in  his  voice.  "A  carabao's  brains  will 
help  me  that  far.  Man,  can't  you  see  ?"  he  burst 
out  passionately.  "Here  we  are,  of  all  places  in 
the  world,  with  Miss  Arnot  under  the  same  roof ! 
How  can  we  tell,  if  the  —  the  Thing  —  will  look 
for  us  first  ?  It  gave  Amat  finish,  this  morning, 
—  not  us." 

Rama,  stepping  back,  opened  his  lips,  and 


AMOK  223 

rounded  them  into  a  droll  circle  —  a  grimace 
that  in  every  line  spelled  amazement  and  chagrin. 

"  I  never  thought  of  it ! "  he  declared.  "  You  're 
right,  very  right.  I  never  thought."  He  stared  at 
the  lamp,  discomfited.  "  You  people  always  put 
the  women  first,  don't  you  ?  I  forgot." 

David  made  no  reply. 

"  We  can  watch,"  the  culprit  suggested  lamely. 
"We  must  watch,  all  night." 

The  two  men  regarded  each  other  silently, 
with  the  same  queer  look  of  concern,  of  an  anxiety 
to  which  neither  of  them  could  put  a  name.  Each 
waited  for  the  other  to  speak,  and  then,  turn 
ing  irresolutely  to  the  edge  of  their  little  cloister, 
stood  looking  out  into  the  rain.  The  night  held 
but  one  sound,  the  sound  of  water :  an  immense 
continual  splashing,  mixed  with  a  clean  quick  spat 
ter  among  the  leaves  of  the  jutting  trellis.  Flash 
followed  flash,  now  separate,  now  slurred  into 
a  long,  throbbing  unity  of  brilliance,  as  though 
some  reckless  child  were  playing  with  all  the 
lights  of  the  world.  The  great  raindrops,  fall 
ing  perpendicular,  glittered  like  steel  bullets,  or 
hopped  upon  the  ground  as  white  and  lively  as 
hail.  The  reddish  floor  of  the  tennis-court,  the 
gray  lines  cutting  it  into  squares,  every  wire  in 
the  mesh  of  the  back  stop-nets,  shivered  out  with 
unearthly  prominence.  Colors  glowed :  the  green 
enamel  of  dripping  leaves;  the  pink  rose-petal 


224  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

of  a  folded  cloud ;  the  sky,  in  rents  and  patches, 
midsummer  blue.  Darkness  erased  all  these,  — 
no  common  darkness,  but  something  final  and 
savage,  like  the  loss  of  sight  forever.  Thunder 
followed,  as  if  numberless  hawsers  were  parting 
all  at  once,  and  colossal  planks  cracking  into 
splinters.  Then,  quickly  as  it  had  come,  the 
storm  swept  up  the  mountain  and  away.  Stars, 
brightly  washed,  glittered  above  the  cinchonas. 

The  last  departing  flash  lighted  the  last  of  the 
rain. 

"  Did  you  see  ?"  David  laid  his  hand  on  Rama's 
arm.  Both  men  leaned  out  from  the  veranda  steps. 

Some  one  had  appeared  for  an  instant;  some 
one  in  white,  running  toward  them,  through  a 
shower  like  Danae's  turned  to  silver.  This  per 
son  arrived  in  a  hurry,  splashing  through  puddles. 

"Mr.  Bowman!"  came  a  breathless  whisper. 
"Mr.  Bowman!" 

The  runner  had  stopped. 

"Here!"  called  David.    "What  is  it?" 

Under  the  trellis  and  up  the  steps  fluttered 
Mary  Naves,  clutching  her  garments  about  her. 
Rain  had  darkened  the  yellow  hair,  and  beaten 
it  profusely.  The  lamps  —  dull  from  the  recent 
excess  of  light  —  disclosed  a  face  whiter  than 
her  dress. 

She  looked  straight  at  David,  catching  her 
breath,  and  nodding  as  if  he  already  understood. 


AMOK 

"I  saw  it  again,"  she  quavered.  "It  was  look 
ing  in  my  window." 

Like  one  who  had  explained  everything,  she 
turned  aside,  crossed  her  arms,  propped  them 
weakly  against  a  pillar,  and  stood  burying  her 
forehead  there. 

"When  ?"  said  David.   "When  was  this  ?" 

Miss  Naves  could  only  shake  and  whimper. 

"A  nawful  face!"  she  at  last  contrived  to 
answer.  "Looking  in  my  window — looking. — 
Same's  at  Sourabaya.  Just  now.  A  big  head  in 
a  red  cloth." 

The  Sultan  made  the  first  movement. 

"The  Thing  has  come."  He  slipped  out  of  his 
sandals,  and  gave  a  little  shiver  of  excitement. 
"  Tupai  Tanah.  Red  as  a  ground-squirrel.  The 
Thing  has  come." 

He  spoke  quietly,  but  drew  himself  up,  in 
flated  with  the  pride  of  a  man  whose  moment  is 
at  hand.  From  his  waist  he  drew  the  legendary 
kriss  of  Mataram,  and  with  a  snap  of  the  fore 
arm  sent  the  wooden  scabbard  flying  over  the 
garden,  half-way  to  the  tennis-court.  The  poison 
ous  green  blade,  veined  with  silver,  quivered 
taut  in  his  grip. 

"  Now,  Bowman,  my  friend."  His  curving  lips 
parted  in  a  smile ;  his  eyes  were  hard  and  bright 
as  a  cat's.  "  Now  we  shall  see  if  Death  is  on  the 
point.  The  time  has  come,  and  the  Thing." 


THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

He  moved  across,  and  stood  beside  Mary 
Naves. 

"Where  is  it  now  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  grave,  con 
siderate  voice.  "Which  way  did  it  go,  this  face 
in  the  red  cloth  ?" 

The  trembling  messenger  roused  herself,  to 
wave  one  hand  vaguely. 

"Behind  the  house.  Round  the  house,  be 
hind." 

Rama  beckoned  to  David,  with  an  air  of 
command. 

"Take  your  weapon,  there.  Blow  out  the 
lamps." 

Leaving  the  bachelors'  wing  in  darkness,  they 
cleared  the  props  of  the  trellis,  crossed  the  drive 
way,  clung  to  the  grass  borders  and  the  deeper 
shadow  of  the  garden,  and  thus  ran  silently 
toward  the  bungalow.  Great  stars  burned  over 
head,  in  all  quarters  of  heaven.  Water  still 
gushed  from  spouts  and  channels,  but  with  di 
minishing  noises.  The  night  was  clear,  the  air 
cold  and  nipping. 

They  skirted  the  main  veranda,  now  dark  as 
a  tunnel,  except  where  the  upper  halves  of  three 
farthest  windows  glowed  above  their  black 
screens.  To  David,  as  he  and  his  leader  stole 
by  the  first  of  these,  it  was  strange  and  startling 
to  hear  Mr.  Hemmes's  jovial  voice  inside  his 
room. 


AMOK 

"Good  to  be  home  again,  is  n't  it,  Kate  ?"  A 
yawn  followed  this  domestic  sentiment.  "  I  must 
go,  presently,  and  see  the  bachelors  are  all  stowed 
comfy,  I  suppose." 

The  bachelors  won  past  without  detection. 
Like  a  burglar  reconnoitring,  with  every  sense 
at  full  stretch,  David  caught  a  fluttering  sound 
behind  him.  He  turned.  Mary  Naves  tagged  at 
heel,  wringing  her  hands  like  a  dim  and  stalwart 
Lady  Macbeth. 

"Go  back!"  he  whispered  fiercely.  "Go 
back!  We  can't  have  you  — " 

"I  don't  dare  to,"  she  wailed.  "I  can't  stay  — 
in  the  dark." 

David  took  her  hand  quietly. 

"Is  that  Miss  Arnot's  room  ?"  He  pointed  his 
kriss  at  the  middle  square  of  orange  light.  "Is 
her  door  locked  ?  And  yours  the  next  ?  —  Good ! 
—  Now,  do  you  care  anything  about  her  ?" 

The  girl  sobbed  out  something  incoherent,  but 
nodded  vigorously. 

"Then  go  inside  your  room,  and  listen.  Either 
you  don't  care  —  a  straw  —  or  else  go !  Watch 
by  your  front  window,  there.  If  anybody  comes 
but  us,  call  for  Mr.  Hemmes.  Go,  I  tell  you !" 

The  poor  Amazon  gathered  all  her  forces,  and 
made  for  the  veranda,  casting  many  a  fearful 
glance  behind  her  into  the  gloom. 

Racing  through  wet  grass  and  shallow  puddles, 


228  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

David  overtook  the  Sultan  round  the  corner  of 
the  bungalow.  They  now  advanced  by  starlight 
only,  and  with  increasing  caution  at  every  step, 
their  hearing  so  confused  by  the  widespread 
trickle  of  waters  draining  off  the  mountain- side, 
that  constantly  they  stopped  and  listened  to 
imaginary  footfalls.  On  their  left  hand  loomed 
the  whitewashed  bungalow,  glimmering  faint 
and  unsubstantial  as  a  cloud.  For  fear  of  being 
seen  on  this  background,  they  kept  a  good  offing. 

"Behind  the  house,"  their  frightened  spy  had 
said;  but  when  at  last,  creeping  quickly  from 
bush  to  bush,  they  had  outflanked  the  rear  ver 
anda,  they  found  themselves  the  only  prowling 
shadows  there.  The  back  of  the  building  showed 
as  another  dark,  pillared  corridor ;  and  though  a 
line  of  darker  upright  forms  stood  along  it,  like 
posted  sentinels,  these  gradually  resolved  them 
selves  into  nothing  more  dreadful  than  the  back 
doors  of  room  after  room,  all  safely  shut. 

Down  this  long  line  Rama  flitted  confidently, 
his  bare  feet  making  no  sound  on  the  wet  earth. 
David,  in  boots,  labored  to  maintain  both  equal 
pace  and  equal  silence. 

They  had  crossed  a  tiled  walk  which  joined  the 
rear  veranda  to  some  outlying  kitchen,  and  had 
run  almost  the  whole  length  of  the  bungalow, 
when  suddenly  both  stopped,  colliding  in  the 
darkness. 


AMOK 

A  shrill  cry  had  broken  out.  They  knew  it,  at 
once,  for  the  untimely  crowing  of  a  game-cock, 
near  by;  yet  the  effect,  the  shattering  of  that 
mountain  stillness,  held  both  men  close  in  their 
tracks.  The  stir  and  trickle  of  water  grew  audible 
once  more.  And  then  David  felt  a  bristling  tre 
mor  pass  through  his  companion's  body. 

"I  see  it!"  Rama  whispered  in  his  ear.  "Go 
ing  round  the  far  end  of  our  quarters.  I  see 
it!" 

David  could  not,  though  staring  his  hardest. 
He  had  no  course  but  to  trust  the  Sultan's  eye 
sight,  and  to  follow,  at  even  greater  speed,  the 
gray  blur  of  his  jacket,  as  it  flew  toward  the  bach 
elors'  wing,  veered  to  the  left,  and  vanished  round 
the  last  corner.  The  child's  riddle  ran  foolishly 
in  David's  head:  "Round  the  house,  and  round 
the  house  .  .  ." 

He  ended  that  circuit  in  a  man's  outstretched 
arms. 

"Down,  down!"  ordered  Rama  ferociously, 
under  his  breath.  "  Down  by  this  bush !  Quick ! 
The  Thing  is  in  our  room." 

They  squatted  under  black  leaves  that 
drenched  them  with  rainwater.  When  this 
little  shower  ended,  David  could  pick  out  a  few 
shadowy  hints  of  their  position.  They  were 
crouching  under  a  low  shrub,  somewhere  be 
tween  the  tennis-court  and  their  pergola.  The 


230  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

ground  felt  sopping  under  hands  and  knees,  the 
air  bitterly  cold. 

"Quiet!"  whispered  his  companion.  "Some 
thing  else  comes." 

A  slow  tread,  softly  crunching  the  wet  sand  in 
the  driveway,  drew  toward  them  from  the  main 
bungalow.  It  stopped.  Some  yards  off,  a  large 
white  figure  halted.  Mr.  Justus  Hemmes  had 
evidently  come  to  bid  his  bachelors  good-night, 
and  found  their  lamps  put  out;  for  a  moment 
later  the  white  bulk  moved  away,  the  footsteps 
departed.  In  deep  bass  notes,  like  the  drone  of  a 
good-natured  bumble-bee,  the  planter  hummed 
an  air  as  he  went  back  to  his  wife.  He  would  re 
port  all  quiet. 

"Now!"  whispered  Rama,  with  fiery  satisfac 
tion.  "Now  we  have  it  to  ourselves." 

As  the  minutes  lagged  by,  this  opinion  seemed 
literally  true.  The  veranda  before  them,  over 
hung  by  the  trellis,  showed  black  and  impene 
trable  as  the  face  of  a  rock ;  and  yet,  had  any 
thing  moved  never  so  lightly  inside,  the  watchers 
would  have  known.  So,  at  least,  thought  David ; 
for  now  that  all  the  little  noises  of  draining  water 
had  passed  away,  and  left  only  a  crisp,  irregular 
dripping  among  the  trees,  he  felt  no  other  change 
in  the  stillness  roundabout.  Muscles  in  arm  and 
shoulder  began  to  ache,  from  their  cramping  in 
the  long  suspense. 


AMOK  231 

Another  shrill  challenge  from  the  game-cock 
startled  him;  and  after  unlimited  waiting,  yet 
another.  The  outbreak  roused  queer  echoes  in 
David's  memory  —  Simon  Peter ;  the  platform  at 
Elsinore ;  a  cruel  main  that  he  had  seen  two  cocks 
fight  aboard  a  lorcha,  in  the  Pasig ;  spring  morn 
ings  at  home,  the  warm  air,  and  a  perfume  of 
bonfires  over  the  countryside.  Why  should  he 
remember  all  these,  in  a  jumble  ?  And  why 
would  nothing  happen  ? 

Then,  in  the  dark,  once  more  he  felt  his  com 
panion  shiver  and  bristle,  like  a  dog  about  to 
growl. 

From  under  the  trellis,  a  shadow  formed  in  the 
starlight.  Greater  than  a  man,  low  and  long, 
with  the  contour  and  movement  of  a  quadruped, 
it  came  slowly  out,  sheered  off,  and  was  creeping 
toward  the  tennis-court. 

The  Sultan  sprang  afoot,  and  walked  deliber 
ately  up  to  it. 

"I  have  what  you  want,"  he  said  quietly,  in 
his  native  tongue.  "  M ari  sini.  Come  here,  and 
take  it." 

At  his  call,  the  shade  gave  a  bound,  suffered  a 
convolving  leap  or  throe,  and  split  in  twain.  It 
became  the  figures  of  two  men,  running  for  the 
end  of  the  back  stop-nets.  The  Sultan  gave  chase. 

On  the  smooth  floor  of  the  court,  David  over 
took  them,  just  as  all  three,  snarling  like  cats, 


THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

rushed  together  in  a  knot.  He  plunged  at  random, 
caught  a  naked  arm,  and  threw  one  man  clear  of 
the  scrimmage.  As  he  did  so,  the  other  two  stag 
gered  apart,  and  began  a  singular  dance,  face  to 
face,  dodging  each  other. 

"Keep  off!  Keep  off!"  panted  Rama's  voice. 
"  Don't  come  between !  Take  your  own  — Amok, 
amok!" 

The  cry  ended  in  a  hurried  clash  and  grat 
ing,  as  when  a  carver  whets  knife  on  steel.  The 
dancers  had  wheeled  close,  and  jumped  asunder. 

David  obeyed  the  voice,  turned  to  meet  the 
fresh  onslaught  of  the  man  he  had  flung  aside. 
From  the  gray  stripe  of  the  service-line,  a  sprawl 
ing  black  shape  recoiled  and  came  at  him.  He 
had  time  to  see  this  rise  off  the  ground ;  to  pull 
the  scabbarded  kriss  from  his  armpit,  to  draw,  to 
balance  it  in  his  hand ;  but  also,  and  as  a  lifelong 
wonder,  to  find  that  no  white  man  could  use  any 
such  weapon.  He  tossed  it  away,  and  welcomed 
his  enemy  with  bare  fists. 

He  delivered  a  clean  blow,  acknowledged  by  a 
grunt.  But  a  sting  under  the  left  ear  told  him 
that  something  sharp  had  missed  his  throat,  and 
that  the  outcome  lay  between  boxer  and  fencer. 
David  laughed,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  tropic 
stars.  It  had  never  entered  any  dream,  that  he 
should  fight  for  dear  life  on  a  tennis-court. 

His  man  returned,  ready,  but  circling  wide. 


AMOK  233 

David  kept  his  guard  partly  by  shadow,  partly 
by  the  dim  whiteness  of  a  breech-clout.  This  flew 
toward  him,  low  and  wriggling.  He  struck  out 
with  all  his  might,  felt  a  hot  pain  slice  along  his 
forearm,  and  heard,  rather  than  saw,  a  solid 
body  fall  at  his  feet. 

He  was  not  surprised  that  it  lay  there  without 
moving ;  for  his  fist  had  gone  home  at  full  swing, 
and  was  numb  from  the  shock. 

Behind  him,  the  whetting  and  grating  had 
stopped.  A  sick  man  lay  on  the  ground,  and 
coughed. 

"Oh,  the  good  fight!"  Rama  was  chanting,  in 
ecstasy.  "Oh,  the  good  fight!" 

As  David  turned,  he  saw  a  light  coming  swiftly 
toward  them  from  the  bungalow. 

"  What's  wrong,  gentlemen  ?"  sounded  the  deep 
voice  of  Mr.  Hemmes.  He  carried  a  small  tin 
lamp  in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  shaded  his 
eyes.  "I  thought  you  were  both  in  bed.  What's 
happened  ?" 

Suddenly  there  was  no  more  coughing. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  David.  "Fetch  your 
lamp,  and  see." 

The  planter  crossed  the  court,  and  bending, 
brought  his  forehead  below  the  lamp,  so  that  he 
had  the  air  of  a  stout  miner  dressed  in  white 
pajamas.  He  peered  about  him,  then  puckered 
his  lips  for  a  mute  whistle. 


234  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

"Bad  pidgin,"  was  all  that  he  said. 

The  trio  exchanged  a  look  of  grim  assent. 
Among  them,  tumbled  across  the  broad  tape  at 
the  base-line,  a  brown  man  lay  flat  on  his  back, 
with  one  knee  drawn  tightly  up,  one  bronze  hand 
rigidly  gripping  his  dirty  loin-cloth,  as  if  he  had 
still  been  aware  of  pain.  His  body  glistened  with 
rain  and  sweat.  A  strip  of  scarlet  cotton  —  his 
turban,  half  torn  away  in  the  struggle  —  formed 
a  neat  and  vivid  figure  six  on  the  wet  ground. 
Part  over  his  face,  part  blown  aside,  his  hair 
shone  in  tangled  bands  and  witch-knots,  — 
coarse  yellow  hair,  of  the  same  unwholesome  hue 
as  the  coat  of  a  rusty  Newfoundland. 

"  Tupai  Tanah"  murmured  the  Sultan.  "The 
Ground-Squirrel." 

"Why,  this  fellow,"  began  David,  "it's— " 

He  did  not  need  to  see,  on  the  man's  broad 
chest,  that  spreading  tattoo-mark  as  of  twin  ferns 
drooping  asunder.  Amat's  Red  Squirrel,  the 
face  in  the  red  cloth,  the  turbaned  figure  like  a 
Sikh  on  the  box  of  Rosario's  carriage,  —  these 
had  been  but  other  guises  of  what  now  lay  be 
fore  him.  It  was  the  dark  savage  with  whom 
David  had  sailed  in  the  banca. 

"A  Bontoc  man,  too,"  declared  Hemmes  in 
credulously.  "What's  he  doing  away  down 
here?"  The  planter  lowered  his  lamp  close  to 
the  scowling  face,  and  read  every  sign  with  a 


AMOK  235 

practiced  eye.  "  And  the  bleached  hair  —  see ! 
The  brute's  done  a  lot  of  diving  somewhere,  in 
salt  water.  Used  to  see  'em  like  that,  down  on 
the  Northwest  pearl-banks,  in  my  old  shelling 
days.  But  here  —  how  did  he  get  here  ? ' ' 

As  the  big  man  knit  his  brows  over  this  puz 
zle,  the  updrawn  knee  fell  toppling  sidewise,  in 
a  lax  movement  which  cast  the  whole  leg  free  of 
shadows. 

"And  that!"  growled  the  planter. 

David  and  Rama  glanced  at  each  other,  but 
did  not  speak. 

The  brown  foot,  thus  exposed,  was  like  some 
relic  of  torture,  —  a  broad,  splay  thing,  with  the 
great  toe  wrenched  over  at  right  angles. 

"Fa-wing"  said  Hemmes,  nodding  as  at  a 
familiar  sight.  "I'd  forgotten  the  word.  Fa- 
wing.  Many  a  slippery  clay  path  that  beggar's 
climbed,  in  the  rains,  to  grow  such  an  ugly  claw. 
Hasn't  he,  though?" 

Brief  silence  fell. 

"A  sad,  empty  doing."  The  Sultan  spoke  to 
himself,  in  the  quiet  music  of  his  own  language. 
He  drew  a  long  breath,  wearily,  and  let  the 
Mataram  kriss  drop  unregarded  to  the  ground. 
"This  ape-foot  man  assaulted  bravely.  And 
for  me,  Sikander  of  the  Two  Horns  never  made 
a  fight  so  beautiful.  Not  a  scratch  on  my  body. 
And  yet  — "  He  raised  his  eyes  mournfully. 


236  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

They  were  red,  heavy,  and  sated.  "Yet  I  have 
no  pleasure  to  look  on  this.  No,  none." 

The  burly  Mr.  Hemmes  frowned  at  him 
shrewdly;  then  at  David,  like  one  who  desired 
much  information,  and  that  right  soon. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  stammered  the  young  man 
weakly.  Tired  to  the  bone,  aching  at  every  joint, 
he  shivered  in  the  raw  night  air.  "  Come  see  my 
man,  first." 

On  the  way,  they  passed  a  gold  chain  shin 
ing  among  the  scars  of  many  footprints;  but 
no  one  stooped  then  to  pick  it  from  the  mud. 
They  crossed  —  the  planter  shielding  his  lamp  — 
toward  where  a  second  figure  lay  crucifixion-wise 
in  one  corner  of  a  service-court. 

"A  white  man?"  cried  Rama;  and  then,  an 
swering  himself,  —  "  Almost." 

This  body,  stripped  to  the  loin-band,  gleamed 
as  wet  as  the  other.  Except  for  one  red  bruise 
from  cheek-bone  to  ear,  it  was  of  a  pale  yellow 
brown,  the  true  half-breed  color. 

"Your  stable  parrot." 

And  seeing  it  lie  there  naked,  David  saw  for 
the  first  time  how  Rosario's  cropped  head  and 
coarse,  humorous  mouth  were  those,  also,  of  the 
pale  man  who  had  steered  the  banca.  Even 
now,  he  saw  it  only  by  hard  work.  Stupid :  he 
laughed  out  loud,  queerly  and  thickly. 

"I  hit  him  with  my  fist,"  he  said,  in  a  slurring 


AMOK  237 

voice  that  he  had  not  intended.  "Could  n't  use 
your  knife,  old  fellow.  Not  fair,  that  way.  Only 
took  my  fist,  and  —  and  I  hit  him  —  and  some 
thing  got  stuck  in  my  arm,  I  think  — " 

He  wondered  why  the  big  proprietor  of  Batu 
Blah  should  catch  at  him  so  roughly.  It  hurt  his 
arm.  Dizzy  with  pain  and  resentment,  he  shook 
the  man  off,  only  to  see  him  set  down  his  lamp 
in  the  mud,  and  take  hold  again  with  both  hands. 

"Help  me  get  his  coat  off,  Tuan  Rama.  By 
Jove,  there's  a  mess  for  you!  Handkerchief  in 
his  pockets?  Good."  Mr.  Hemmes  gave  orders 
in  a  brisk  undertone.  "Right  round,  under  the 
shoulder.  Tight.  More  yet.  Twist,  hard.  Now 
get  him  to  the  house." 

David  felt  himself  raised  and  carried  like  a 
feather.  Had  his  legs  only  reached  the  ground, 
he  would  have  balked.  They  ought  to  reach; 
they  were  infinitely  long,  his  feet  excessively  light 
and  distant.  He  wanted  to  say  something. 

"  Slipped  ?"  a  voice  grumbled.  "  Set  him  down. 
Twist  it  harder.  Never  mind  if  it  smarts,  my 
boy." 

At  last  he  could  dig  both  heels  into  the  mud, 
at  the  edge  of  the  tennis-court.  He  struggled 
feebly  to  go  back,  like  a  dazed  man  dragged 
away  from  football. 

"The  chain,  Rama,"  he  stuttered.  "The  gold 
chain.  By  the  lamp." 


238  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

"  Oh,  yes,"  came  the  answer.  "  I  '11  get  it.  Wait 
a  bit." 

The  lamp  spread  a  forlorn  radiance,  like  a 
solitary  candle  set  on  the  floor  of  an  immense 
hall.  The  Sultan  ran  toward  it,  bent  over  it, 
searched  rapidly  about. 

"Not  here,"  he  called,  in  a  tone  of  distress. 
"Did  you  take  it,  Mr.  Hemmes?  It's  not  here. 
Look!" 

He  straightened  up,  and  stood  pointing  at  the 
ground. 

Both  service- courts  lay  bare  in  the  lamplight. 
The  body  of  David's  antagonist  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE    PACKET 

THE  chill  had  left  the  morning  air.  A  delicate 
vernal  sunshine  brightened  the  mountain  peaks, 
and  softened,  for  mile  on  downward  mile,  the 
green  map  of  the  plains  unrolled  in  far  perspec 
tive.  It  was  that  time  of  day  when  lizards,  like 
bronze  ornaments  quickened  into  life,  crawl  out 
to  sun  themselves  and  catch  the  earliest  flies. 

In  a  veranda  chair,  David  lay  dozing.  A  vol 
uminous  white  and  blue  kimono,  built  to  cover 
Justus  Hemmes,  furnished  a  drapery  more  than 
ample  for  him,  bandages  and  all.  Not  to  stir, 
had  been  his  orders  for  the  day. 

"I  don't  want  to,"  he  thought  sleepily. 
Through  his  lashes,  he  could  watch  the  blue 
mountains,  ridged  with  sunlight,  and  full  of 
crinkled  shadows.  This  was  effort  enough ;  this, 
with  now  and  then  a  lazy  roving  of  the  eyes,  to 
search  along  the  blossoming  garden.  At  its  far 
end,  beside  the  graceful  shaft  of  a  lakka  tree, 
David  could  follow  the  shining  of  Mary  Arnot's 
hair,  as  she  bent  among  the  flowers. 

"No:  this  is  good."    He  shut  his  eyes  again. 


240  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

What  was  it,  somewhere,  about  another  girl 
doing  that,  —  "herself  a  fairer  flower"  ? 

The  only  sounds,  in  all  the  wide  morning,  were 
drowsy  and  comfortable.  A  mountaineer,  idling 
down  some  distant  path,  trailed  his  high,  waver 
ing  song  like  a  filament  of  sorrow.  Coolies,  who 
passed  in  the  road,  hailed  one  another  musically, 
or  groaned  out  a  patient  "All'  il  Allah,"  as  they 
shifted  a  piculan- burden  wearily,  to  shoulder  it 
afresh. 

This  lofty  garden  was  very  peaceful.  To  lie 
there  motionless,  with  closed  eyes,  and  a  flutter 
of  warm  breeze  upon  the  face,  gave  a  curiously 
tranquil  sense  of  being  carried  on  the  unbreath- 
ing  bosom  of  the  mountain.  And  yet,  while 
David's  body  rested,  his  mind  could  not  sink 
back  at  ease.  He  lay  thinking  more  and  more 
of  another  quiet  place,  where,  as  now,  he  had 
touched  the  bottom  of  exhaustion.  Pictures 
thronged  his  memory,  pictures  and  sounds:  the 
lighted  hut  in  the  cocoanut  grove,  with  breakers 
roaring  far  out  as  they  charged  the  reef ;  the  mes 
senger  crawling  under  the  floor,  and  his  brown 
arm  rising  like  a  snake ;  the  smell  of  hot  sealing- 
wax,  the  scratching  of  an  arrested  pen,  the  silver 
locket  and  the  cover  of  "Punch"  that  lay  beside 
a  streaming  candle.  All  these,  and  more,  dis 
tressed  him  with  their  new  reality ;  but  nothing  so 
much,  as  to  perceive  how  utterly  his  chief  errand 


THE  PACKET  241 

had  failed,  and  how,  even  if  it  had  not,  the  out 
come  reared  before  him  like  a  blank  wall,  a 
strait  gate  sealed  forever.  The  other  man  might 
lie  content,  in  his  high  chancel  of  palm-trees. 

"Well, — in  time,"  thought  David.  In  time 
he  would  look  back  on  everything  aright,  would 
think  soberly  and  calmly  of  her,  as  of  all  good  in 
fluences.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and  saw  her  mov 
ing  about  the  garden.  Too  soon  yet,  he  discov 
ered  ;  and  therefore  let  his  sight  range  past  her 
to  the  hills.  Dark,  powerfully  blue,  and  sharp 
of  edge,  but  liquefied  by  the  zigzag  umbrage  in 
ravines,  they  flanked  the  vista  of  the  plain.  Mor 
sels  of  white  crater-smoke  hung  aloft  in  sun 
shine. 

"And  I  shall  remember  this  place,"  he  con 
tinued,  in  his  musing. 

A  bird  flicked  out  from  a  cassia  clump,  on  his 
right,  and  darted  over  the  garden.  It  left  tassels 
of  bloom  swinging  among  the  leaves.  David  was 
vacantly  watching  their  motion,  when  he  heard  a 
light  footstep  behind  the  bush,  over  which,  next 
moment,  flew  something  no  larger  than  the  bird. 
Through  a  short  curve,  it  flashed  from  sunlight 
to  shade,  and  fell  accurately  into  the  lap  of  his 
kimono.  He  saw  a  motley  turban  bobbing,  as 
some  one  ran  off  behind  the  screen  of  cassia. 

"Here!  Wait!"  Calling  aloud,  David  roused 
himself,  but  only  to  subside  again,  dizzy  with  the 


242  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

attempt,  the  pain  shooting  through  his  arm,  and 
the  surprise. 

In  his  lap  lay  the  stolen  packet,  bundled  with 
something  else. 

When  his  fit  of  giddiness  had  passed,  he  lifted 
the  thing  weakly  in  his  free  hand.  A  sleazy  ribbon 
of  lufa,  already  torn,  gave  way.  The  packet  slid 
out.  What  remained  in  his  fingers  was  a  dog's- 
eared  fold  of  yellow  note-paper,  inscribed  in  a 
schoolboy  hand  —  "to  Bowman  Esqre,  Batu 
Blah." 

David  opened  the  sheet  with  his  teeth,  and 
read :  — 

DEAR  BOWMAN  ESQRE,  —  This  is  no  erthly, 
use  to  me  I  send  itt  back,  by  Gove  You  may 
laugh  for  itts  on  Your- side  but,  by  Gove :  You 
nevva  can  say  I  don,t  no  the  Fare-Play  wen  I 
sea  itt  wen  lasnight  You  restrane  from  snobbing 
me  by  purly  local  vernagular  side-arm,  my  Word 
that  was  Ricohombre  sportman  trick  You  are  all 
righto  I  can,t  empress  this  betta  on  paper  have- 
ing  no  Book  to  consort,  my  poor  Kulo  hee  is  dead 
lasnight.  he  was  fatheful  muchacho.  Kulo,s 
mother  was  any  girl  in  the  Olag  but  my  mother 
subsist  as  english  woman  of  sorts  so  my  Word  I 
no  the  Fare-Play  wen  I  sea  itt,  I  nevva  touch 
your  english  man  itt  was  Kulo  did  for  him  we 
sapposed  he  had  gott  the  grate  bally  Neckles  of 


THE  PACKET  243 

Pearls  itt  was  all  over  the  Hand  that  he  had,  and 
we  found  letter  about  same  in  shotting- jacket 
You  took,  in-clusion  I  would  state  poor  Kulo 
was  extrodiny  rudimentaly  and  barberism,  so 
gott  perfecly  scaired  &  did  for  him  by  Gove 
now  I  do  a  tapadura  in  the  Bosque,  sorry,  have- 
ing  no  Book  to  consort,  sir  excuse 

Your  sincerely  well- wish 

ANGEL  ROSARIO. 

Ps.  I  say  itt  came  doosid  hard  not  talking  to 
You  in  banca  then. 

Ps.  I  say  Chatra  is  perfecly  easy  frend  to  gen 
tleman,  she  was  madd  You  did  not  take  a  shining 
to  her,  Adios. 

Ps.  I  keep  the  gold-chane. 

David  lowered  his  arm  carefully,  for  this  half- 
breed  document  set  his  head  swimming.  He  shut 
his  eyes  again,  and  waited ;  then  languidly  grop 
ing,  recovered  the  packet  in  his  lap,  and  raised  it. 
The  manila  wrapping  was  the  same,  though 
smeared  with  mud  and  folded  all  askew;  the 
Japanese  twine,  bungled  in  hasty  knots,  bore 
only  crumbs  and  broken  scales  of  red  wax.  David 
let  the  thing  fall,  eased  his  shoulder  in  the  chair, 
and  lay  wondering. 

Some  time  had  passed,  when  a  cautious  little 
tread  on  the  veranda  steps  recalled  him  to  the 
world. 


244  THE   TWISTED   FOOT 

"Did  I  wake  you?"  said  Mary  Arnot.  "I'm 
so  sorry." 

Like  a  figure  in  a  sunshine  holiday,  she  stood 
holding  against  the  whiteness  of  her  dress  a 
double  armful  of  scarlet  flowers.  They  brought 
out  strongly  that  hidden  blue  in  the  depth  of  her 
eyes. 

"I  was  awake,"  David  answered,  smiling. 

She  came  up  into  the  shade,  and  on  a  wicker 
table,  where  he  might  see  them,  laid  down  her 
masses  of  flaming  color  and  green  leaves. 

"I've  brought  you  a  bit  of  the  garden."  They 
were  blossoms  of  the  coral-tree,  the  old  Prome 
thean  flowers  stolen  by  Krishna  from  paradise. 
"You  may  like  something  to  look  at." 

" I  do,"  was  David's  reply;  but  as  he  thanked 
her,  it  was  not  the  coral-blossoms  that  he  saw. 
The  girl  drew  up  a  chair  beyond  them,  so  that 
still  her  eyes  contained  their  glory  of  contrast. 

"Will  it  tire  you  ?"  She  motioned  toward  her 
chair.  "I  won't  talk.  Shall  I  tire  you  ?" 

"  Never,"  he  laughed.  "  Please  do  stay,  and  do 
talk.  This  is  only  playing  invalid.  Last  night  I 
got  to  wandering  round  in  the  dark,  and  fell  on 
something  sharp,  and  hurt  one  arm  a  little.  If 
you  stay,  I  can  play  convalescent." 

Miss  Arnot  sat  down,  but  for  a  time  kept  her 
promise.  The  peace  of  the  hills  enveloped  them, 
the  pleasant  warmth  of  heightened  sunlight.  An 


THE  PACKET  245 

seolian  humming  drifted  down,  and  spread 
through  the  air,  from  some  village  eyry  where 
boys  were  flying  kites.  It  was  like  a  voice  vibrat 
ing  in  the  sunshine. 

"How  well  that  sound  goes  with  everything." 
Her  face  was  turned  aside,  yet  the  words,  quietly 
spoken,  admitted  him  to  a  full  share  in  her 
thought  and  vision.  "Don't  you  find  it  strange, 
to  remember  that  beautiful  lightning,  last  night, 
and  then  to  see  all  the  mountains  off  there,  so 
calm?  And  to  think  they're  full  of  everlasting 
fire,  —  founded  on  it,  and  based  in  it  —  " 

Beneath,  terraced  along  volcano-flanks,  the 
fish-ponds  —  a  chain  of  tiny  square  lakes 
crowded  with  palm-trees  —  glowed  with  all  the 
airy,  fervent  blue  of  the  sky.  Farther  down, 
flowing  toward  the  green  perspective  lowlands, 
bright  fields  of  ripened  rice  undulated  in  slow 
ripples,  the  wind  revealing  and  hiding  the  reap 
ers'  hats  which  floated  there,  like  blue  shields  of 
heroes  rolled  down  by  a  golden  Simois. 

"There  is  the  only  thing  that  moves."  The 
girl  spoke  out  his  own  thought.  The  music  of  the 
kite-strings  died,  above,  and  swelled  again.  "  The 
only  moving  thing." 

She  turned,  to  glance  at  him  over  the  red 
flowers.  Her  eyebrows  lifted  slightly.  She  had 
seen  what  he  held,  forgotten,  in  his  hand. 

"Miss  Arnot,"  —  David  already  had  lied  for 


246  THE  TWISTED  FOOT 

her  sake;  now  for  his  friend's,  —  "Tuan  Rama 
left  this  with  me,  to  give  you." 

She  leaned  across  and  took  the  packet,  with 
out  replying ;  then  sat  very  still,  her  dark  blue 
eyes  cast  downward  at  it,  in  preoccupation.  As 
though  compelled  to  act  now  or  not  at  all,  she 
slipped  the  Japanese  twine  from  the  corners,  and 
unfolded  the  muddy  paper.  David  stared  at  the 
farthest  rim  of  the  plains. 

"Gerald!    Oh,  poor  boy,  poor  boy!" 

David  lost  his  jealousy  of  that  name.  He 
dared  not  look  at  her  until  she  spoke  again. 

"See!  you  were  his  friend.  Yes,  please  read 
it." 

There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes,  only  great  sad 
ness  and  compassion,  such  as  befits  women  who 
see  bravely  and  truly  into  life. 

David  took  what  she  replaced  in  his  hand,  —  a 
wooden  box,  open,  but  with  a  slip  of  paper  hiding 
the  contents.  Under  this  lay  coiled  a  necklace  of 
beads,  small  at  either  end  of  the  string,  large  in 
the  middle,  and  all  as  red  as  Krishna's  flowers  on 
the  table.  He  glanced  up,  questioning. 

"The  old  coral  string  I  wore  as  a  child,"  she 
answered  steadily.  "  He  never  forgot.  We  were 
almost  of  an  age,  Gerald  and  I."  Her  eyes  be 
came  too  star-like;  she  averted  them,  to  watch 
the  golden  river  of  rice  eddying  down  the  hills. 
"  He  never  forgot.  Poor  Gerald !  He  was  a  very 


TITAN   RAMA   LEFT   THIS   WITH    ME,   TO   GIVE   YOU 


THE   PACKET  247 

proud,  unhappy,  mistaken  boy.  If  he  had  only 
told  his  father  one  half  of  what  afterward  — " 
She  stopped,  and  waited.  "Have  you  read  his 
note  ?  —  Do,  please." 

At  that  moment,  round  the  cassia  bush  came 
his  Highness  Sri  Rama  Vicrama,  lowering, 
dogged,  a  man  discredited  and  sullen. 

"Hunted  everywhere,  old  chap.  That  stable 
cockatoo  — "  He  broke  off,  at  sight  of  the 
crumpled  manila  paper  in  Miss  Arnot's  hand. 
His  brown  face  lighted,  as  a  fire  stirs  at  rekin 
dling.  "  Ah,  you  have  it."  Then,  with  a  smile  of 
grateful  incomprehension,  the  Sultan  bowed  to 
the  lady,  sat  down  on  the  steps,  and  fastidiously 
arranged  his  skirt,  plucking  at  the  lozenges  of 
burnt  orange  and  brown.  "  I  beg  pardon  —  if  I  'm 
not  in  your  way?" 

David  raised  the  strip  of  paper. 

DEAR  MARY,  —  As  I  came  near  losing  your 
silver  locket  the  other  day,  I  had  best  return  your 
coral  beads,  for  the  sake  of  old  times  together. 
Don't  forget,  —  I  was  to  replace  every  bead  with 
a  pearl.  The  bearer  of  this  may  be  in  a  position 
to  tell  you  how  I  failed. 

You  always  stood  by  a  worthless  chap,  God 
bless  you ! 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

GERALD. 


248  THE  TWISTED   FOOT 

The  scroll  dropped  from  the  reader's  hand,  the 
sunshine  went  white  before  him. 

"I  —  I  didn't  know,"  he  stammered  feebly. 
"  Your  brother.  I  'm  very  much  —  I  'm  very 
sorry.  Your  brother  Gerald  —  of  course,  you 
must  —  " 

He  knew  of  discussion  going  on  above  him, 
but  could  not  grasp  the  words. 

"My  arm  hurt,"  he  managed  to  explain,  out  of 
darkness.  "All  right  now,  thank  you." 

Daylight  flooded  back,  slowly.  He  descried 
the  Sultan  Rama,  smiling,  smiling  down  as  from 
a  height,  with  ineffable  and  irritating  wisdom. 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  a  voice  far  off,  "our 
patient,  madam,  is  on  a  good  path  to  recover, 


now." 


Mary  Arnot's  face  appeared,  anxious,  re 
proachful,  beside  the  speaker. 

"A  little  dizzy,  that's  all."  David  smiled  at 
them,  and  lay  back,  listening  to  the  breeze  that 
harped  among  the  kite-strings,  merrily. 


«•— 


APR  14  1937 


YB  69133 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


